Poetry: undocumented

{First published in the Spring 2021 issue of Hole in the Head re:View}


Coiled around me, helix of sleep
and dream, erasing space not you or me.
Not for fear, more reaching 

for a handrail, as you held
my arm in new company, talked fast,
tap dance of manners—top hat and vanilla smile. 

Okay, maybe fear. Tricks to stump 
suspicion: Yes, Sir. Beautiful day, Sir.
Can I help with that, Sir?—getting on the good 

side of white. I watched you serve, work, weigh
reactions to swarthy eyes and accent, 
signing Father, Son, Holy Ghost like cops 

stacked the deck to find you.
Will they know you broke laws to have
work matter, wanting just a house 

like your dad, a bath, shed of tools, tidy 
kitchen with chilies and lime? One safe thing 
this side of motherland?

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