When I First Came from Nepal

As I clutched my suitcase … thick hot sweat
built in the slits
of my palms, which shook holding its cool metal brace. We walked into day-winds, thick
as dried out paint
on unwashed canvas. The sky was painted daffodil yellow. The ground was a dirty grey. There was a metal bird: an array of fearful, forgotten


Missing the feeling of home I smell the iron rust
of the Municipal Gardens.

The sour tang of home still sits on the tip of my tongue like the zest of sweet citrus fizzing.


I did not know
of grey, gravel roads,
or the bright buzzing,
of scarlet cars.
I did not know
of lonely red-bricked houses, gazing strangers,
standing next to next, military officers, in endless rows. I did not know,
of silence in the streets,
or the secret whispers on the buses, or the sly gestures of restaurants.


I know now
In this place, where I did not know, the things I did not know embrace me in ways
I didn’t know.

© Mukahang Limbu