Across the Border
Daily Dispatches
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing
— T.S. Eliot, from East Coker
1. Mornings …
I must again urge myself out of the restless fog
of this nightmare, put on clothes
the man I used to be
once wore, gather documents and drive off
in light rain to the checkpoint,
lowering the window,
handing the guard a file, beseeching him
as I had done the day before,
and the day before that,
glazed eyes begging to take pity on me,
please let me pass, go home
to that sweet house
in the woods, the long and easy front porch,
Persian rugs on wood floors, worn
couch, family photos
climbing all the way up the creaky staircase,
but the stone-faced sentry only
shakes his head,
a mechanical voice crackling through a speaker:
Address not on list of known domiciles,
a gloved hand reaching across
the breathless chasm, curling passport stapled
to the folder, bold letters stamped
across the blue cover:
DEPORTED
2. Afternoons …
I wander this unfamiliar landscape,
a ghost searching for the undaunted man
I used to be in store windows,
in stagnant ponds, in the eyes
of people who don’t know I’ve lost my place,
a homeless soul poking through
dumpsters for fond memories,
searching for trap doors under rugs, passwords
I’ve forgotten, a hidden path
over the mountain to take me back
to the old country, leaves on trees, vegetables
in the garden, grandkids in the treehouse,
me sitting in a porch rocker, azaleas
in bloom, phoebes in their nest under the eaves
sweat on my brow after mowing
the sweet green grass, a car
I recognize coming down the long driveway,
a pitcher of iced tea on the glass table.
3. Evenings …
I watch Jeopardy, Wheel
of Fortune, turn up the volume
on soft rock, stand at the refrigerator without
hunger, filling starless nights with empty calories,
pointless distractions, writing bad poems
of unbearable sorrow
as burnt offerings to the stone-
faced guard, hoping against all hope
to catch him off-guard when I show up in the next
restless nightmare, another fruitless attempt to play
on his sympathies, convince him to let me
pass, but each night he slaps
the pages from my hand, barbed
wire grimace crossing his face as he points
the rifle behind at the line of idling cars, blurred
faces through rainy windshields, a faint whisper
from his twisted mouth, "You
are not alone here."
—SL, New Paltz, NY, December 2023
Ever since I read the post I have been thinking of something meaningful and comforting to say. So I put off writing a response until now simply because the words fail me.
Just know that my thoughts often wander to you and Patti and they send you both love.
Keep rolling the view changes
beauty will creep in
as you remember what you have.
LW
So deep and dark, but I am so happy to see it. I hadn't seen you in a long time and I got the letter from Ed McMann about Writers Read. I was going to contact him to make sure you were alright, Boss. Much love and may 2024 shine the LIGHT on you . ❤️
Some end-of-year darkness (thanx, I needed that).
A big hug my friend. Very big.
Mihai