People are wandering the aisles
looking for a pet. I am there
in the back with the silence
attending the fish and stones
who know about the false
currency under our tongue.
Even the walking-sticks disappear
among the reeds. They know we are thieves,
having stolen the fruit, water, fire…
Our grandmothers are live
ash, long white braids of smoke
rising into the hole in the sky,
leaving unrecognized by our children,
who continue trying to catch
anything that moves.
No loitering. Do not touch.
You break, you pay.
When no one is looking
I offer my fingertips.
Gold surfaces from the dark,
lips, soft as an infant’s ears.
All day and all night
people tapping the glass,
desire to see, to be seen.
© Robert S. Pesich, all rights reserved. This poem first appeared in the anthology And We The Creatures, 2003