When I think of leaving,
I think of reducing the charm of our house into the boxable;
that which is given away and the thrown out.
Previously all of these ingredients –
dish towels, ironing board, newspaper clippings,
salvaged chairs, a cat
and the stick-like small statue of a man –
made up our home.
This seems to be an action to avoid.
With clammy hands, our lower eyelids are edged with a dampness;
our feet hidden and fixed beneath black and golden sands
that perpetually wash in with the tide.
With a sting of the possibility of regret
and a terrain that attempts to hold us
we begin the shuffle of leaving
a country.
