I Carry the Grief for My Homeland in My Wallet Behind a Photo of My Dead Lover 
 
half folded & crumpled 
like the ten-pound note 
I forgot to spend 
at the pub last night 
most days I remember it 
when I pull the dead lover’s photo 
from behind an unused credit card 
& the grief clings to the photo’s back 
as though it’s wet with my hand’s sweat 
or a spot of spit from my tongue 
or a dab of yet another loved one’s blood 
& it flutters to the floor 
       settles beside my right foot 
& before I can bend to pick it up 
                       tuck it once again 
                                                   behind the dead lover’s photo 
a breeze slinks along across the floor’s tiles 
               sweeps it onward 
& I can’t remember 
                               if I’m supposed to chase it 
                                                                           or not