The Thing about Feathers

We kept only the keys,
letters, and photos —
everything else stayed behind
when we left the house.
That can happen when
a nation changes overnight,
when those you know
turn into
a gate of feathers —
and the thing about feathers is,
they know what's been missed.
For years I watch
my neighbor's house
from others' windows—
different countries,
various homes,
some of brick, some of stone.
Some never imagine
what a home can mean
when an unfinished tune
traps the ceiling.
I pretend
never to have
seen a body midair,
a father's hands
planted on the ground—
after all
what we don't admit to
never happened.
But I couldn't
change that day in Murcia,
when water brought light
to the door:
I am seven
it is the day before our departure,
the day my father
gives me a notebook,
and I tell him,
this is where I'll keep my country.