Border Interrogation of a Ghost
We won’t let you in without proof of good health.
Do you want to see a shadow theater
on my chest X-ray?
A Greek chorus in lament,
horses galloping through the ranges of bones?
Do you want to see snow falling
inside me and the refugees
from all the books I’ve read till now
smuggled inside my ribcage?
We won’t let you in without a planned place of residence.
I will live where I will be unafraid
to walk outside both night and day,
where a neighbor could ask me
to lend her a teaspoon
of hope or a cup of milk
and she won’t come home empty-handed.
Show us an itinerary of your past and future travels.
I made an entire atlas.
On the first map, continents are close together,
like newborn cats, before the drift occurred.
I wasn’t born yet.
At the end, I included flags
of all the countries I’d love to visit
before bombs erase them
and drawings of all the animals
I’d like to see before they disappear.
We won’t let you in without a nest egg.
I brought twigs, feathers, mud,
and pages from censored books.
I’ll make the sturdiest nest
that shall last at least a century.
Do you have any skills?
I can grow heirloom tomatoes
and I know how to stitch up
jagged wounds on dreams.
If you let me, I can teach you how to survive
on water and flour, how to live
without electric power, in case you need
to learn these skills yourself.
I can enrich your dictionary.
Tell me what you want me to make
and I will make it.
Do you really think we ever planned to let you in?
But I’ve been here for centuries.
Don’t you recognize me?
Look at the bridges I built.
The mines where I worked.
The bread I baked.
The streets I cleaned.
The children I healed.
The inventions I patented.
The concerts I conducted.
The classrooms where I taught.
Here, take this orange. Taste it.
I picked it just for you.