Finding Home

By the border, my passport sticks to my face
like a kiss,           or a slap.

There are women with children who look at me but won’t speak,
because speaking           means worrying,

and our world isn’t made of worrying.

It’s like bathing with cold water on a winter evening, it doesn’t matter
—you’re cold anyway;

or like loving someone on a hot summer afternoon.

They find their way through the border,
I find mine, trying not to recognize faces that might know         you.

For years now, I might not know myself without
looking through my bag;

I will learn to live with the desperate quiet of the morning sand,

and I will remember        your name       but not you.