Postcolony

“There is nothing
but us together,
born to one another,
to settle against.” ~ D. Bonta

The fair’s over, the tickets
all sold: even the siamese twins
have gone to make children of their own
on a dusty farm. My clothes are in some
museum basement, mothballed and moldy,
impossibly old. I traded them in for a train
ticket, a trip up the coast, the chance
to stand by myself, bareheaded,
in an orchard reddened with fruit.
Not yours, you reminded
through a bullhorn; Now don’t get
any ideas
. What an echo you make
through the years; what a nag,
what a scold, what a miser, what a drag:
always talking tithe, always in your tower,
in surveillance mode. In other words,
dear: you haven’t changed.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Dyad.

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