May 28, 2018What They Smuggled Across the Border
Sewn into their coats, their shirts, underneath skirts,
folded between plentiful breasts, or beneath hats,
under arms, on the underside of the small bowl of the knee,
or some women, who braided whatever was deemed
salvageable into their hair, woven into coils, pinned
tightly against the skull. Spoons, pearl earrings,
Charmeuse silk slips and jade bracelets. One even tried
to bring thirteen porcelain figurines, a nativity scene,
later shattered by patrolmen underfoot. Photographs
in varying tones of gray, a birth certificate, though very few
brought those, hopeful for new names to blot out the horrors
of their pasts. And pistols, snug against calves, no holsters,
cold steel to keep warm flesh company. Most brought
words like piine, pamint, libertate—words to kiss
their mouths and roll on their tongues one last time,
because so many carried a pact to forget, begin again,
but not you, father, you, mother, or you, uncle,
who still wear a necklace, like a tattoo on your chest,
one dangling bullet resting softly over your heart.
from #59 - Spring 2018