Spring '08 TOC
after Walt Whitman
Crossing your borders, you do not know how small I become. How conscious of my own skin of the skin of others. (A matter of generations)
I do not recognize my face among these faces, I cannot find my family. At the airport, I am allowed to pass to keep up appearances, friendly.
I too am from a young country newly arrived, and already departed. I recognize your history, remember your stories the ones I was not told.
You give me a cottage and a key a hand, sometimes. You take layers of skin years.
I speak softly here, a protest a whisper, I have chosen and not chosen. I have waited for the papers, five years and every day I fear the loss.
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