12 hens April 8, 2024

 

I follow a trail my ancestors took, though they were not the first, the natives once selling this island for 12 hens while mocking the farmers who though they got the best part of the deal, the natives thinking: how can anyone own land or sky or water, later puzzled at the settlers who got upset when the natives took this island back, my family arriving just when the Dutch though this land would never change, farms as far as the eye could see, as crooked speculators like my great, great grandfather robbed them blind, cutting up the fields to build houses for the factory workers to occupy, farm after farm vanishing so as I stroll here now, I can find no trace, this place I return to again and again in my dreams, my cold water flat refuge I hide in when I’ve lost my way in the real world, not so much lately as back when I thought I had fallen again deeply in love, watching my world fall apart, just as the Indians did, just as the Dutch did, love never being enough to hold all the pieces together, even for the price of 12 hens.

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