seeking, always seeking. i found a small spanish refuge;
my home was host to an awfully auspicious affair.
i found myself now on these streets where fascists once marched and reigned,
where now dark and desperate men now peddled dark wares.
in seeking, i sought the backstreets.
an ex-patriot, i bore in my proud, left hand, a french man.
barri gotic. the sun near blinded me
i heard a cry. turning, as if forever, i saw there was a small woman.
she, as if in some terrible transit,
stood agape; there was a boy in stripes with tiny arms.
he had a small hand by her neck – and was gone,
his jubilant hand held a gilded treasure.
frozen in blistered heat, me, my french man, and this woman,
looked back and forth. me at her small and beautiful hands
which had already lost so much (for what is life if not continuous loss)
and i felt redundant. why was i born if not for this moment?
my pale, bare wrists and neck, naked as a plucked chicken
(for my hostel housed my silver) was testament to her distress
because, of course, she wept and of course, i stood.
my nation, that day, wore a single white dress.