small hands splay
over the muted pinks, browns, blues and greens
the atlas lays open
far off lands
and lives
await
older hands grasp a guide book
pins on a map
the globe spins
haphazard slips of paper lie stuck on objects
foreign labels
her tongue rolls
working words
and language
she is yet to use
down a corridor
my foot snags on faded carpet
the postcards slide between the glass and wood of the cabinet
images of distant places
and always
her loopy writing
a kiss at the end
the borders of your country are shrinking
the back fence
the front yard
the corner of the street
and yet
within
an entire world
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