On the Border, by Gregory Luce
On the Border
I stand astride the line between two worlds,
a bride in pink losing patience, my last
cigarette burning forgotten between the fingers
of my right hand. The sick sun, the sad moon,
the pink lightning cast a feeble light over
a Mexico turning gray, old temple
half gone and its stones gathered for
an unknown future. Even death is dead,
while the god and goddess stand as I do, defiant,
alone, forgotten as the lush flowers with deep roots crowded into the corner.
Estados Unidos, your skyscrapers are rising higher
than your flag.
Estados Unidos, the smoke from Ford’s factory is beginning
to obscure your flag.
Estados Unidos, your welded pipelines are marching
across the land like the undead.
Estados Unidos, your electronics are putting deep roots
into your soil and connecting to our flowers.
Estados Unidos, I am waiting. Underground
the secret marriage has begun.
Gregory Luce is the author of Signs of Small Grace (Pudding House Publications), Drinking Weather (Finishing Line Press), Memory and Desire (Sweatshoppe Publications), and Tile (Finishing Line). His poems have appeared in numerous print and online journals, and in the anthologies Living in Storms (Eastern Washington University Press), Bigger Than They Appear (Accents Publishing), and Unrequited and Candlesticks and Daggers (ed. Kelly Ann Jacobson). In 2014 he was awarded the Larry Neal Award for adult poetry by the D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities. Retired from the National Geographic Society, he lives in Arlington, VA. and works as a volunteer writing tutor/mentor for 826DC. He blogs at https://dctexpoet.wordpress.com.
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