The Immigrant. (Poets United prompt: Food)

It’s cold here.

Daily each sense is assaulted

Reminders that you will find no belonging.

Smells and tastes and sounds

Offering  you threats instead of comfort.

People are cold here.

No warmth, as back home

Where unplanned friends traced your smile with both hands

And mama’s bowl ignited sweetest incense within you

An altar where you’d offer up a loving savour

Borne from most sacred spices.

You feel so cold here.

And when the evenings close most bitterly

You resist tears with stored thoughts.

Of warm nights blessed by warm hands.

A small congregation round a table

Of many small dumplings that melted into your throat

As though they belonged there.

And soups rich with all the flavours

Of the land around you.

And small meats roasted on a fire

And chattering mouths

Glistening with their robust juices.

You’re still cold.

You hold a few cold coins in your cold hand.

You exchange them

Seeking q consolation close to the warmth of home.

You find something hot and lie down filled.

But it feels like treachery.

There is no deep sweetness

Or warm and smooth fire left at your throat

No comforting hum from a field of summer spices.

It feels there can be no satiated soul

When you are used to the warmth of another world.