Gold

We came looking for it. A little farther. A little longer. One brick, then another. A house. A chapel. We will live here. We will pray here. And if some finds its way into our pockets, who will blame us? The small stone biting your hip all day. Tracing the impression with your finger at night. Mosquitos rising up in a cloud. A streak of blood smeared across your hand. The fevers. The heavy sleep. The raids. The fires. Everyone looking. Everyone looking away. Which way? Dear God, which way now? Find me, it says, sinking deeper into the ground. I am not here, it says, waiting for you.