The Arab Crosses into Los Estados Unidos

Once I bathed in new phrases,
spoke with the starthroat.

Silked in sentences, curled
inside the parentheses

of dream. Once my father bent
a dime between his index

and his thumb, snapped a house
from air, swallowed gold fire

captured in singing glass. Glass
sang from his circling touch.

But when they came for him,
he danced to their orchestra

of bullets.

                          We did not wait
to tuck him safely

into earth, raise his name
in stone.

                           What
we buried we buried

beneath our ribs.

                           At the border

of the country

of

                           the future—

I own nevers,
                             
                            dusty

keys

                     with no receiver.
I carry him

                                            and cross the river.