Misplaced Persons

(Photograph by Marcelle McIntosh)

When I climb into bed with my mother, I try to hide away from the world.

One day my baby brother also joined, typical for him to do so as the mama’s boy.

For him it was routine and acceptable, as for me being a college grad, not so much.

As my baby brother clambered into his favorite spot,

My mother looked at us and playfully said “I take no refugees ! “

while fluffing out her king-sized pillows.

I stayed anyway and had a restless sleep,

Wedging my new nose piercing into the cartilage.

My body notices the intrusion and fights it, rejects it.

By morning I try to painfully remove it to relieve the swelling.

Blood, clogged and crusted around it.

The titanium stud was sinking in, becoming one with my flesh.

Like the shrapnel that must have struck those in their homes in Syria,

Unaware in the night that they would not see morning.

Leaving children behind,

who become misplaced, motherless, fatherless.

No beds to crawl into, no one to crawl next to and sleep.

To feel safe and secured by.

It’s like these people are falling off the Earth as it rotates, and it’s up to us,

the ones stable enough to set out nets to catch them.

Open up our King sized, kingdoms.

We must join in and do it together, not with scissor fingers but with our hearts on our sleeves.

Not to instinctively become territorial and fight

As if our resources will be threatened.

Why make other people’s life a living hell, when you already know

that they tried to escape it?

Inhaling the ash of it burning around them,

Drowning in the endless ocean

It’s so easy to reject what you don’t know.

What you feel does not belong.

What to you seems out of place.

When you can crawl into the comfort of your own bed.


By Marcelle McIntosh

                 by Fallujah.