New Poem/Transferring In Iceland

Transferring In Iceland

A woman who can trace her ancestors
back to the first Icelandic settlers, sells
me the last pot of Vanilla Skyr and a banana
that reached its peak three days ago.

I haven’t eaten Skyr since 2011 and all kinds
of emotions boil up, turning my nostalgic
heart into a gurgling soup.

Across from where I sit, an old woman
fondles the back of her husband’s head.

He appears to be shaking slightly. I wonder
if he’s a nervous traveller or if he’s recently
had heart problems or if he’s leaving
Iceland for a funeral.

A toddler wearing a 66 Degrees North fleece,
zip done right up to his chin, answers his mother’s
questions in English, and talks in toddler tongue
to the lady asleep on the next bench over.

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