I’VE lived in what feels like a little bit of everywhere. But “home,” for me, is the road. Stretched out before me like poetry, the highway is also, conveniently, where some of the most unexpected poems emerge.
I come from wanderers, nomads, and the long-displaced. Born under Somali skies that stretched so wide it was hard not to fall into them, my Pops carries the rhythm of moving across the land in his blood. So do I. Pops taught me that the road itself is both journey and destination. When I was growing up, Pops remained infatuated with the vast landscape the highway affords. He traded camels and lorries for minivans and creased road atlases origami’d into the corners of a glove compartment.
When I was a kid we crisscrossed…
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Poets & Writers (Digital) - 1 Issue, March/April 2025