In my hometown, it was like January,
like January in Oaxaca, in Fortin
de las Flores, like Fortin
in the mid-forties, like the 40s
in December, like December
on the river, a forest of willows
half in, half out of water,
like the river in the picture,
like the picture above your bureau,
like your bureau filled to overflowing
with feathers every colour of the spectrum
feathers blown through vowels,
through curtains of bougainvillea, going
on forever, forever as it formerly was,
in the lustre of a loved one’s luggage,
baggage to carry lightly or solemnly
toss-off into the Bay of Fundy.
Thank you for four golden mice
who never wake me up at night,
for the pocket-size surveillance device,
for books which tell me nothing’s unakin.
In January it was like my hometown
in the 1940s in the middle of December,
December a cool glass of water at noon
in the summer, a clinking of cowbells
to signal it’s evening. I was seven
four, eight, eleven, still unborn,
brother to my younger sister,
sister to my mother, father like a twin,
twins like vapour trails on clear nights
in October.You were my shadow
I dared not step into.You stood by
my shoulder, champion, angel, faithful
companion I dare not look in the eye.
What was it like for you?
Were you about to step into your skin,
like water poured from a pitcher,
like an ant into amber, like molten gold?
Was the gold like someone’s fortune
or folly, folly a moving picture you’d get
into for a quarter, when a quarter meant
more than a dollar, a dollar a bit
of a future you’d be expected to furnish,
I’d be with you to finish,
of a finish wearing the date of your birth,
polished with everyone’s hopes,
polished with everyone’s dreams
lost in a basket of keepsakes.
