Leaving Samambaia

By Kate Kearns

E. Bishop, 1971

Leave the scraps of paper where they fell –
that bit of broken glass from Ouro Prêto,
the pins that held a stubborn shriek of hair.
My typewriter with its worn steps, my bottle of ink.
What need have I of your drafting compass?
The blue macaws will have to stay behind.
The figurehead, its ugly horns, must come.
Who will lay hands on what is left?
The figurehead, its ugly horns, must come.
The blue macaws will have to stay behind.
What need have I of your drafting compass?
My typewriter with its worn steps, my bottle of ink.
The pins that held a stubborn shriek of hair,
that bit of broken glass from Ouro Prêto –
leave the scraps of paper where they fell.

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