The bag over my head kept me from seeing          the sky’s pink architecture. The beautyof the celestial dome does not transcend sight.          After my arrest, I left my country, the onewhose rivers I bathed in as a child, the one that          gave me my primary education, my primaldreams. And in the new country, I was free          to watch the sky. Except this skywas different, this sky didn’t glow like a pink          orb, this sky underwhelmed me.I didn’t love this sky. I didn’t love this country,          though everyone told me to be grateful.So I shut up. I grew up. This tale is not about          gratitude. This tale is not about assimilation.This tale is about omissions, exits, how I escaped          the pitiable doubleness of that narrative,moved to another country, then another, and in each          I saw a sky that didn’t match the one I usedto have. Physics says that light pollution keeps          the cells in our eyes from truly witnessingthe heavens. In my journey, I forgot about clarity          or smog. I forgot about comparisons,or philosophies, or revolutions, or regimes.          Instead, I watched the kites scar the trees,the ducks swim across the depthless lake.          Every city reminded me of another city.Oh, I was lonely. I spoke nine dead languages.          I spoke then I shouted until they answered.The cities, the suburbs, the plains. I said to any living          thing: I’ve arrived. I’m here. Are you listening?