Thursday, 26 January 2017


            For Maulupe Ofa

by Marguerite Guzmán Bouvard

Sometimes   a word is   too small
too insignificant    like the word   smile
that cannot  hold   the layers   of years
and understanding     the harmony
of sitting beneath   a tree  that has its
own language   the land   they took  away
from your people   that didn’t take   its memories
or its history    the hands carving   a wooden turtle
that will fly   on its own   journey   the eyes
that look    at a stranger   with ripples
of peace   and contentment   the grace
of a summer sky

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