In our manufactured home
constructed in the heart
of a valley, the ground
smells like coffee after it rains.
In my country,
they call these homes “villages.”
Even if nobody
is friendly. Even if the names
of neighbors are lost
with the clouds after standing
under the same shade. I wish
I could meet all the Annas in this village,
all the Victorias, the Justins,
for no reason but to know them,
ask them about the coffee
and where it comes from: If we dig
deep enough, and strike coffee,
would we be agricultural?
Would we deserve the name
village? Or the common names of farmers
and farmers’ wives in Europe?
That afternoon when there were rainbows
in the sky, the smell of coffee
wafted across the village.
I was thinking of sugar
and love and speaking
to the next neighbor I saw.
No one came. I was meditating
and the whole world was a Parisian café.
I was in a valley, the earth
cradling my part of the city.
On the power lines, water dripping
from the sagging portions of them,
were sparrows who seemed to share
my curiosity, or my way with it–
with faith in the slowness of never finding out.

3 thoughts on “Migration

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