Here’s dominion, and the reek of borders.
This is my walk alone behind the guard
on the high, snow-bound edges of Iran,
the roads mud rivers thundering down drains.
In the hot offices of Manila
an unsmiling clerk from the Department
of Immigration and Deportation
takes my passport. I am lifting my face
to a bright light, empty with submission,
having been so often silently watched,
so often pinned to the revolving chair.
My father turns between the grains of sand
on a small disc of beach, lying concealed
from all eyes at the bottom of the cliff.
