Terra Madre

~ after Katrina Bello


First country, last sea— How light 
knits a borderless shawl to throw 

on the backs of hills, across sheaths 
of grain, across cities recovering from

fire or flood or some recent disaster. We too 
are sown and re-sown in the world, as seeds 

pushing through soil,  as water traveling through 
veins, unfazed by mineral shadows. At daybreak, 

fishermen shake scales of silver from their nets. 
At dusk, furtive light burnishes the soles of their feet.  

I want to believe we are cupped like this—held 
like warm knobs of bread cradled in brown paper

and borne through the still sleeping streets, held 
like a quiet clapper inside the cast iron mouth 

of a great bell. What fell out of the skies, 
and from such a great distance? When islands 

quake and leaves fall, it is from the hands 
of the Mother. Peel the dry papyrus husk 

of a garlic clove, salt a plate of java plums. Sit 
at the edge of the harbor watching ships

bearing their mixed inventory of treasure and waste. 
In time, we will die where we are. First sea, last country.