Mostly, it’s Pete’s butt.
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by Warsan Shire
no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as wellyour neighbors running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilet
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitiedno one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enoughthe
go home blacks
refugees
dirty immigrants
asylum seekers
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands out
they smell strange
savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn offor the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child body
in pieces.
i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
drown
save
be hunger
beg
forget pride
your survival is more importantno one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying—
leave,
run away from me now
i dont know what i’ve become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here.
Warsan Shire is a Kenyan-born Somali poet, writer and educator based in London. Born in 1988, Warsan has read her work extensively all over Britain and internationally – including recent readings in South Africa, Italy, Germany, Canada, North America and Kenya — and her début book, ‘TEACHING MY MOTHER HOW TO GIVE BIRTH’ (flipped eye), was published in 2011. Her poems have been published in Wasafiri, Magma and Poetry Review and in the anthology ‘The Salt Book of Younger Poets’ (Salt, 2011). She is the current poetry editor at SPOOK magazine. In 2012 she represented Somalia at the Poetry Parnassus, the festival of the world poets at the Southbank, London. She is a Complete Works II poet. Her poetry has been translated into Italian, Spanish and Portuguese. Warsan is also the unanimous winner of the 2013 Inaugural Brunel University African Poetry Prize. -
I knew that 18th and 19th century women wore separate pockets under their skirts. I have a friend who is an anthropologist and she does 18th c. historical reenactments and I have seen her embroidered pockets.
I have been wondering lately how we got out of the habit of those oh-so-helpful accoutrements. Especially as I hear my friends reply to clothing compliments with “Thanks! It has pockets!”
I bought some new, linen, work pants at Old Navy recently and was delighted to realize there are pockets deep enough to hold my phone without it falling out on the floor when I need to stoop down for something. I wear a Japanese style apron when I do yard work simply to give myself big pockets. Pockets are useful. Frankly, pockets rock.
I found this article and this other article that I find believable. There are others. But, they are pretty politicized and I don’t really buy it. I find “That just isn’t cute.” to be more believable.
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From a conversation with my cousins and sisters on our beach weekend:
Strawberries (1968)
There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love youlet the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hillslet the storm wash the plates
Poem © Edwin Morgan, Gnomes, Carcanet Press Limited, 1968
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In January, I had a gardening chat with a woman on Post about using 100 gallon water troughs for raised beds. She said she has one in the middle of her garden that is a water garden with fish in it to help keep down mosquitos. I was immediately entranced and dashed out to buy another trough.
For the record, January is not the time of year to buy water plants. But. Southern States did have a couple of plants loitering in a corner, waiting for Spring. I bought the 2 waterlilies and a corkscrew rush to get started.
Since my colocasia/black elephant ear is a water plant, I decided to use it when it warmed up enough to take it outside. I’ll still have to bring it in to overwinter. But, that’s the only plant I plan that requires special treatment.
The waterlilies are expected to bloom pink and purple. I wanted a third to balance them and found a white one at Soviero’s in late April. Soviero’s had a zebra rush, too. I really wanted the tall, striped rush to go next to the corkscrew.
After looking at how-tos about fish in outdoor containers, I decided I don’t want to have to look after them. Instead, I got a little, solar powered fountain to (hopefully) keep the water moving enough that I don’t breed mosquitos.
I have all the pots at different heights to fulfill individual plant requirements. And I had to change the pot I had the zebra rush in because the plastic one I started with wasn’t heavy enough to keep it situated. The wind could blow it over.
I learned to put sand on top of the dirt to keep the more nutritious soil from floating out into the water. And a large bag of playground sand is the same price as a tiny box of ornamental beach sand. It is not as light in color but is just as effective.
Finished product 
The rushes and the fountain. 
Lily pads! I’m tickled that the waterlilies have 3 types of leaves in addition to 3 colors of flowers. The speckled ones are from the plant that is supposed to bloom white. I think the purples will have a dark purple flower and the solid green leaves will have pink flowers. I have no idea when to expect them to bloom. Or even if they will this year.
The fountain usually sprays taller. But, today is cloudy. Sometimes it drifts to the side and sprays out of the trough. So, we get to add water every once in a while if rain doesn’t help us out. It really is lovely to hear when I’ve taking a break outside.
I am the Audience 