We’re packing again for our twentieth move – who knows what the neighbors will be like? What if they tidy their lawn with scissors, contemptuous of our easy relationship with dandelions? How loud is their music? On our morning walk, will they stop, baffled by black-with-white, and stare? Will the smoke we smell be of incense and ancestors or danker weeds? Will what flies over the fence be raised voices or bubbles on the breeze?
Will they be as polite of neighbors as Canada? Will anyone ever be?
crossings
intersectional
Means no one is an island
Our pain become yours
Like smoke drift from our fires
This trouble seeps past borders
