“Border”

This border, not a line
but brown skin, jigsawed by chainlink fences
families turned into paper work, long lines
and appointments,
barbed wire rings like falling haloes
biting into blue skies.

In Juarez, in El Paso, there are people
constantly crossing .

The border is not what is in-between,
but what is on the other side –
what language tells the story of your birth,
what flag screams above your head,
how you are divided in the eyes of your God.

These borders become
how you come to want
from where, and who waits with you.

What will you do
to see yourself on the other side,
who places their arm in your way,
and what they say when
they stop you.

There is always another side
what changes is
what is between
you and it

Filed under Journals, Spoken Word, Mexico, Bao Phi.

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