Poetry |

“Gathered At The Well”

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.

 

Contributor
Joyce Peseroff

Joyce Peseroff’s sixth poetry collection, Petition (2020, Carnegie Mellon),was named a “must-read” by the Massachusetts Book Awards. She is the poetry columnist for Arrowsmith Journal, and blogs on writing and literature for “So I Gave You Quartz” at www.joycepeseroff.com

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