DMZ

At the end of my life I must stagger back to love,

my body a weight I am sick of carrying,

my pockets filled with intricate maps

and useless strategies.



I ask forgiveness of everyone who loved me

—you have been grievously misled.

I cash my name in, such a useful thing

—let’s hope someone else has more luck with it.

I return the suit I borrowed,

promises I couldn’t mend,

the happiness just one more quarter-inch

within my reach—loose change

still good for a pauper’s meal.



I surrender my history

and all memory, its ammunition.

The nameless claim me. Exiles

offer me a home. Who else sees me

as I truly am, just another vehicle

transporting so much fuel?



I light my anger like a pile of twigs.

I do this in the desert: it scares away

anything that will devour me.

I do this in the city, where the jackhammer

cracks the cranium of the earth, and nothing

can save me. I lose myself

among the restless immigrants,

their bodies still warm

from the lust and gunfire of slums.



Grief is a nation of everyone,

a country without borders.

I roam the avenues of it

out of habit. Summoned to testify

on everyone’s behalf, I’m sticking

to my story. It’s better not to talk

about the wounded, or the moist remains

of the disappeared. But there’s always one

who can tell, in the packed

amplitude of crowds.



We are so many bodies, my friends.

We all move in the same direction.

As though someone had a plan.




From Amigo Warfare, Cherry Grove Collections, 2007. This edition is no longer in print.