qarrtsiluni

History is the bridge over the past
tense, an arc of illuminated dust,
the light from the projectionist’s booth
that makes motes of your mother’s tears—
It’s the movies without the rain of stars,
Casablanca, without the grainy mist,
a nostalgia, and the flicker for what never was,
the lost, the lost….

and here you are, in the supporting role—
waiting for a visa, the inked
permission to exit the country you know only
too well, beyond the reach of roots.

You are packed:
the clothes of your new life
folded and stashed in your mind—

and again you rehearse:
the border, customs, forms
to fill. Again you write:
nothing to declare,
nothing worth currency.

Written by Maria Benet of Alembic.