I feel them heavier some days, the wide seams
of my clothes no longer swaying when I walk, 
as if the thread takes on the weight of every curse 
since I crawled from a boat, sopping wet, weighed 
down by nights spent under stars as water crashed. 

Curse words meant to block my path rear up to grab 
me by the scruff, labelling An Immigrant. Men stop 
to hack the words, aiming at my hem to see me stumble 
when I walk. Ever since my country’s lost, I’m deep 
in mourning clothes, family buried in the soil.

Saliva seeps through cloth even though I scrub — 
hands raw — would throw the clothes away, but money 
is too scarce. It is my fault for running from the bombs
that destroyed the fabric of my home, all I had 
worn on my back, clothes failing to protect.