I peeled the useless gold from my finger
it's still in my rosewood stash box
with my expired passport whose stamps
seemed particularly ecstatic at the time
now reduced to references in my journals

"I am a witch," I tell them, "a priestess."
I hang a sign on my door of a blue palm and an evil eye,
but no one knocks. I'm only 10 years old.

He wanted me to find him. I found him in
gold weeds, in a field so wide it took all day
He left no paths. He could have been anywhere,