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.