Poetry by Evan Christopher

A Gypsy in Madrid Stole My Passport

She snapped her elastic arms to her chest,
hugged my citizenship firm –
carrying that concrete liberty
like a weaning child
as her bending sapling legs carried her through the city.

It’s easy to hate
the back of a head.
with every stride we cursed
each jet curl
and every bright swatch,
and every copper jingle.

We caught her in a circle
and prepared to pounce;

The gypsy was old:
forty or fifty,
her jaundiced eyes shadowed with emerald,
lined with indigo Egyptian cosmetics;
the pits of her cheeks were hidden with blush,
and the bones of her face ruled the image entirely –
like a brown canvas sack that was much too big
and hung over her skull in hard wrinkles.
just behind her eyes, misery –
like calico curtains –
knit form abandon, hunger, knit form fierceness and desire –
misery knit from everything taken from her.

We recovered it;
it was all so exciting.
Many hours late, I wept—
the irony
of a gypsy
stealing my passport.