pigeons

A week of leaving (part 6)

 

Repack light:

fridge magnets, tankards

the size of thimbles,

Hungarian nesting dolls,

everything in miniature

except the dessert wine

made in the same region

the giver’s grandmother

was born and raised in,

a magic wooden puzzle box,

a child’s drawing of better days.

For each thing you’ve acquired

leave something in its stead

(this will mess with your mind

but nourish your idea of soul):

a pair of jeans you outgrew

in the first month,

the red corduroy you failed

to regress into,

that winter coat better suited

to this hemisphere’s history,

Ishiguro’s Buried Giant,

photographs of shadows

of the same bridge

from two countries,

poems, poems, poems …

Leave room to spare,

just enough

for memory’s

latent stowaways.

Spring has begun its send-off,

slow moving cascades

of buttercup yellow.

The cats and the pigeons

sense your preparations too,

already they have started

looking back over their shoulders

as if to say we always knew

for all your petting

all your looks of longing

you were just passing through …

cat

 

 

 

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