I even wanted to raise you
as my own. But everyone
looks alike where I come
from. It’s the stuff of
tragedy, I know. And we
speak a language somewhere
near the bottom of the mountain,
not towards the top, but yet lost,
or unable to desire that first en-
counter with a civilization that is
not our own. Like from down the
street somewhere. We fall drunk
into our laps at 6pm and they are
happy laps. With blue skies and
leaves crawling out of their buds
(somebody dragging a suitcase
nearby thinks of worms, thinks
of Kenneth Cole, thinks of bus
noises and of dragging suitcases).
The birds sing a second or third
stanza. It is a message of hope,
but, in our way, it is also wrought
with the fear of demons and terror.
Another distillery gets inherited
by a child who blushes at flapping
quail wings—no document will
ever exist to prove it. Our
traditions come from the
island. But for our great
barrier. Our uneasy myth-
ology. Our general lack
of interest. Our banner of
representantion is our
symbol for landlocked.
