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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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