BANISHMENT BEFORE WATER BY DAVID ANTHONY SAM

I cast seven pebbles from
this weary creek bed
onto the dry land
as if to draw something
solid out of the unyielding flow.

My lips want to tell me
stories like those my grandmother
would tell—stories
that may have been once true
but cannot twice be so.

I see my abandoned home
in remnants of sunrise,
hear the ghost of a train
whistling winds of torture,
hear moans of the last displaced.

I am a dried date fallen
from the tree that hugs stale water–
hard and wrinkled
with seeds of sweet hope
steriled within.