thing with feathers

thing with feathers

You would be the Fanta my brother bought
in the Sahara from a man on a motorcycle,
barely even cool and 20 dirham but the look
on his face when the bottle was produced,
the joy that spread across it, after sitting sweaty
under the meagre shade of a stunted tree
drinking hot mint tea for hours while 
the sun made its way across the high
blue sky, it would have made a wonderful
advertisement, and is that what you are,
is that what I’m hoping for here, 
something in an  advertisement? I don’t 
think so.           You are not a commodity, 
you are not a luxury home, you cannot be
bought at Target or American Apparel 
two-for-twenty dollars, you cannot
be bid on or bargained for. Even 
a billionaire buys none of you,
not even a glance, not even an eyelash
or a whisper or a fingernail clipping.

Still, I shake out my pockets looking
for change. I have forgotten how to ask.

-amy isikoff newell c. 2014

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