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Sport 40: 2012
what was
what was
once a year
when bookmarks
fall out of my books
with memoranda like
counting ferns,
registry carnations,
nettle clips,
i go back to my village.
on open pages
stories yellow.
they have turned
to legends
nd laid down their arms,
mockery, tumult,
the dance sweat
that dripped from the brows
of the dancers.
i put on my red smock,
put my hair
over my head like a bush,
wear dirty socks
and boots that would
fit a man.
i smell the pig fat
in the unventilated kitchens,
try out names
and their shadow stories
page 217
that once kicked free,
crash about
like floating wood.
i stop at the yard entrance.
here i laid a stone
with a furrow
encased in lime.
it was supposed to remind me
where i came from.