They don’t ask for passports
at this border.
Thank God, really,
because what would I show?
Think about my picture.
I do.
Half me then
and half me now.
How would mouth and eyes,
delicate, reforming,
ever match up even
under such a glare?
It’s just been 10 weeks
I’ve been crossing.
Some days I go back
and forth five times.
The hot blur smear
of it smells permanent.
Once, I thought you were my country.
That I could find a refuge,
your burning skin shelter,
your low whisper walking me
out, unarmed, across the DMZ.
But the days pass slowly
when your face is shifting.
This motel is my Dominion.
When I pull my dress on,
the bed spins like a globe.
About the author:
Michelle Holmes came to Stanford for a yearlong journalism fellowship and stayed to write poetry in the redwoods. Because she lives smack dab in the heart of Silicon Valley she was forced by peer pressure to develop her own app. Her poetry has been published or or forthcoming in several fine journals including Short Fast and Deadly, Barnwood Poetry Magazine and Midwestern Gothic.
Follow her on twitter at @mlh_holmes.
