Our lands and all our loves

Look here, he said,
gathering up coins
from his coat pockets
and filling the jar
we kept by the door.
Copper and nickel,
zinc and old bronze.
Every bit caught by
our prudent means.
He said, Sooner
than you think we’ll
grow those dreams.

The sleeves of his jacket
thin in patches. Sharp
creased collars, that good
cotton smell from a hot iron.
I loved when we walked
to the library and looked
at books and globes and maps.
When he turned to a page
and pointed, in my mind I saw
a street on the other side
of the world, the house (gone now)
where I was born; even the pigeons
that roosted in the eaves knew
the syllables of our names.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Free trade.

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