Dust on My Passport

Arizona sunrise through the blinds
Work boots by the door,
Desert grit on the truck outside
An old Harare photograph
Tucked inside my father’s Bible
Phone call home before the shift—
My mother’s laugh cuts through the vinyl

The miles run hot between these places,
But familiar voices still reach me

Dust on my passport, I carry two homes
Dust on my passport, both names in my bones
Dust on my passport, wherever I go
Dust on my passport, I carry two homes

My children stir the sadza pot,
Flour on their elbows, asking why
“Where did we begin before this house?”
I say, “Listen close, you’ll know it”
Grandmother’s name, a Shona phrase
Half remembered, then clear as day
Recipes measured by the hand,
Old scars and laughter in the same frame

The miles run hot between these places,
But every old voice points the way

Dust on my passport, I carry two homes
Dust on my passport, both names in my bones
Dust on my passport, wherever I go
Dust on my passport, I carry two homes

Home isn’t one stamp, one border, one door
It’s bread on the counter and names we still use
It’s my kids saying words I didn’t grow up with
And taking them farther than I could

Dust on my passport, I carry two homes
Dust on my passport, both names in my bones
Dust on my passport, wherever I go
Dust on my passport, I carry two homes
Dust on my passport, I carry two homes

Two homes in my bones