My Country Isn’t

My country isn’t
my country because
I’m not myself.
I haven’t been myself since
I don’t know when.
My mother said
just be yourself.
My father was
himself all his life

and everyone loved him.
But I loved
the smell of the rain
before the rain
more than the rain itself.
And I lived
in the country of
myself all my life.
The food was bad.
The language odd.
The peace unsteady.
So I moved
to the country of
I’m not myself.
To the country of
I don’t know who
and I don’t know what
I am. And I am
finally home.
There always was
that side of me.
That is the side
I am on.
I love my country.
I would die for my country.
But my country isn’t
my country and I am
not myself.

About Paul Hostovsky

Paul Hostovsky's poems appear and disappear simultaneously (Voila). His work has recently been sighted in places where they paid him for his trouble with his own trouble doubled, and other people's troubles thrown in, which never seem to him as great as his troubles, though he tries not to compare. He has no life, and spends it with his poems, trying to perfect their perfect disappearances, which is the working title of his new collection, which is looking for a publisher and for itself. To read more of his poems, visit his website by clicking the link above.


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