I found the old compass and the treasure chest
under the bed, the day you left
Nothing else
no tear, no smile, no friendly adieu
You left behind the compass
minimalist, delicate, made in metal and wood
I let myself wonder
where did it come from?
a trip to the Orient, a walk in Chinatown
the Buy & Sell across the street?
Did you inherit it from an old lover?
was it stolen or bought,
a farewell gift perhaps
was it forgotten on a sit in the subway train?
Then the chest, it sits on my open hand
how large the treasures it holds,
which pains, many days of sun and dust
Aztec kings and La Malinche,
la chingada madre de Mexico mestizo.
I found the old compass and the treasure chest
under our bed the day you moved out,
and with you moved your tears, your lies,
the merciless self-pity.
I keep the best of you
the little compass to guide me when I fall astray
the chest to keep my riches, which by and by
will fit well under the Aztec sun, and come around
the circular time, repeating themselves again and again
adding a little wisdom each time
or so I hope.

Words and photography ©Malu Baumgarten - all rights reserved
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