Eva Skrande
This Uneven World
I walk lopsided due to exile. Putting finches on my other shoulder
for balance
doesn’t help me walk straight.
I left my shoes in my old country,
and my feet are rough
and brown like a boat forgotten somewhere.
Even the night touches my exiled hair mercifully.
Every now and then,
someone takes my hand to help me
cross the rivers of memory. I continue remembering sad things
those with no coats in the cold,
tent cities where there should be houses
that contain gold forks and knives. The house full of flowers where I lived
in my homeland.
I miss my parents who have died.
.
I have no idea what holds this uneven world upright.
In the plaza, elderly women walk
with their stockings rolled to their knee
Near them, the shadows of countries no longer on the map, sit on benches.
Somewhere, my old house sits
on a hill though it, too, is no longer on any map.
Even the stars miss the countries of their childhood.
Tonight, even the moon
in the branches of the leafless oak tree
is a language other than laughter.
How is it possible
that we all see the same moon
when so many types of sadnesses make us, from time to time,
walk unsteadily
down the long streets of this earth.
Other work by Eva Skrande