Gathered At The Well
Your land was taken from you:
the definition of history
for those with land to take.
I’m a stray myself, sometimes
welcome, often cursed, whether
I had gold or not. I was taught
to remember exile
from air I never breathed.
From what, I understood:
not mine, the olive grove.
Not mine, a net thrashing with fish.
No place in the ceremony,
no bride-price or dowry
for my tongue-tied children.
I suppose my ancestors once
had land, and it was taken,
perhaps by your ancestors.
Now we’re both wanderers:
if one of us steals, others
swear we’re all thieves.
You recognize the fragrance
of what you lost and of things
likely to be lost. I know the narrow
pass from here to tomorrow
where everyone’s a stranger,
all those gathered at the well
arguing my right to drink.
Day by day I carry a house
on my back, in thunder
or a blizzard, on starless nights:
to you, I’m also a stranger.
I ask, where is the road?
When you point south,
I think I should go north.