IN ENGLAND

Its steeples, its city chimneys slide below the horizon

as England’s sky turns grayer than a lover’s murmur.

Two blind accordionists stroll by, head down.

Without farmers, no evening prayers.

Without headstones, no recitations.

Twin rows of apple saplings stab my heart.

My wings hold up my name

and England takes me where I’m tossed.

The furrows of memory flatten.

Shame, that’s my address.

In all England, not a woman who can’t kiss.

All England can’t contain my ego.

Dirt under my fingernails,

what’s left of my homeland—my mother

parceled up, shipped off.