Home. A back room,
where victory was chronicled
with matchsticks laid out like corpses
on the unsound table between us,

where we argued like gods, over them,
imagined nations that hung on gesture
of hand and brow.
This passes too near amnesia.

Where are you, that we no longer
see the same egret dancing
on the water-bison, or, out of boredom,
count the flickering lights at Point Lisas—

or is it Pointe-à-Pierre?

We grow to forfeit the smallest inheritance.

What happened that we missed
our island growing smaller beneath our feet,
our mothers nursing us only partially?