I’m leaving tomorrow

So, since I’m leav­ing for Bilbao tomor­row, I thought I’d post a poem I wrote after the Museum the other day.

toledo, 1492

So, take this key. We are leav­ing tomorrow.
They say: sell everything. They say: there is nothing
here for you any­more, noth­ing but death.
I am stub­born. They will not have this house.
I was born in this house, its enclos­ures were
my play­ground as a boy. Here in this kitchen,
my wife lights the candles as my mother did;
as her mother did. I have my books. I have coins,
cloths. Not much else. I hope this letter finds you well,
my brother. I hope this key is not too great a weight.
one day, when it’s safe, come back and open
the court­yards to the light again. There will be
ample water in the aljibes. From the terraza,
night times, when it’s quiet, you can hear
the birds on the Tajo, dis­tant, not so distant,
call­ing to each other, among the voices,
whis­pers in the bed­rooms, admonishments
for errant chil­dren, laughter in moments
of for­get­ful­ness, hushed quickly as memory
rushes in unfor­giv­ing. So empty, these streets
now. Ysaac and Shoshana, gone already. Miriam
and Yuçaf. Avraham. Well. The boys talk
in huddled con­fer­ences, plan­ning rebellion.
Use­less. Better to live, no? It’s not as though
we haven’t done this before, our people.
Too often, per­haps. South, this time.
Mor­rocco? Ironic, back to Egypt?
As for me, well. They will not have this house.
I am stub­born. we are leav­ing tomorrow.