Jane Eaton Hamilton


This New Country


We packed our bags and named
our destination: each other
climbed into the car
the bus, the plane
We knew there would be no accidents
the air bag huddled under the dash
oxygen masks swarmed
above our heads, flotation devices
herded under our seats. I
couldn’t stop looking at you. We
didn’t know the new country even
four years later. I still don’t know it
as you turn forty beside me
and flowers bloom
It’s saturated with colour: azure
persimmon, indigo; with light:
dawn, the harsh light of noon, the washed
light of rain, dusk; with heat
We can’t send postcards. We are dumb
with what’s happened: this exile into grace

Submitted: Monday, February 24, 2014
Edited: Tuesday, February 25, 2014

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