Return to Sender

Our old neighborhood was overrun by covetists. You know the ones: round fellows swathed in painted canvas, gold coins stuffed in their sockets. I am pretty sure you kissed them. Their fingers, you said, were quite ripe. I recall wriggling in and out of my skin, imagining their fat, wet lips glistening against your cheeks. Where, did you say, you had met them? Anyway, this year, the fad is heritage, as if your motherland can switch hands. Do you remember when we sang “This Land Is Your Land” during our fifth-grade play? Your hair was still dark then, your voice not yet something to miss. I doubt Woody would like the changes I heard yesterday. On the radio, reports of chanting at the capitol. I did not recognize any of the words. Last I heard, you were in Gaza, sifting through the last bits of cinder. You said a man showers and sings of sparkling sand and diamond deserts. He has no neighbors to hear him.