Public ArchiveWe are a people of hands in our pockets grabbing & wanting & stuffing our money deep inside our jeans. We have a forefather. He is a tintype. Posed at his pharmacy storefront, face blanched empty for the century of light. In our countrysides there are ice blue lakes, lagoons hot & still as broth. We family & document. My sister falls & bruises her eyes. Sends me the picture. My palms on the laptop's plastic casing feeling for the image of a face like & unlike mine. We want to be a people of beauty enough to be its own small currency. If our ancestors had a hero, they built him of bronze & silence. I stack my coins. A monument to themselves. Allyson Paty's poems appear or are forthcoming in Tin House, jubilat, Kenyon Review Online, Best New Poets 2012, the PEN Poetry Series, and elsewhere. She lives in Brooklyn, where she is co-founding editor of Singing Saw Press. |