The Gold Cutter's Daughter

That which you weave,
like Judea's first goldsmith,
Bezalel, into vineleaves of gold,
I wear threaded in my thick dark hair.

Among these damp brick streets,
these pigeon-coloured days,
you pierce my coral ear and fix it with
a little Gold Star,

so they may know me for what I am,
a stranger. My mouth fills with feathers, a weight
of foreign words. At night I dream of forests,
smell the quiet darkness of snow.