A Plot

Summer, a roomy cabin, somebody passes by.

Bushes behind the fencing—open the wicket, try.

Somebody in the kitchen rattles a can. The mist

of kerosene still lingers—the smell I cannot resist.

Plenty of soupy water, an elder’s leaf sticks to skin.

A voice from the darkness is calling out to me, in vain.

Tender and free of care, that time has gone forever,

dotted by names.

Our land is square, its population scarce.

Next to the fence I stand looking through it at the land

wistfully, night after night.

I, its foster grandchild.