When I travel I touch my passport often,
as if it was a talisman, or the foot of a rabbit
that tells me you, are still you, and I stand on line
to be welcomed wherever I may be.
Sometimes, I touch one of my poems and my mother
stops singing for her friends, puts down her top hat,
and wonders what I need. I look at her
like she was a passport picture that only shows
what a stranger should see. I carry a suitcase
with more shirts than I will wear, a notebook
hoping to write enough to breathe often, a comb
I barely need anymore, the crumpled note
on which I scribbled the address where
I will be staying, and the rabbit foot.
Juan Pablo Mobili was born in Buenos Aires, and adopted by New York. His poems appeared in Tupelo Quarterly, Hanging Loose Magazine, Louisville Review and The Worcester Review, among others, as well as publications in Europe, Asia, Latin America, and Australia. He’s a recipient of multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations, and an Honorable Mention from the International Human Rights Art Festival,. His chapbook, Contraband, was published in 2022. In January of 2025, he was appointed Poet Laureate of Rockland County, New York.
