Crossing the Hyphen
by Madari Pendas
I crossed the hyphen the first time,
Still a child, still believing
All lands were connected,
That bridges were only
Ornamental vertebrae,
Spines of girders and steel.
Each step followed by a pause.
I contended with the heaviness of water,
At any moment, I expected a plank
To splinter, crack, give; its belly rotted out.
Returning with new myths & fears
And an accent neither side affects,
Both grow suspicious of me,
Distrustful of bridge dwellers,
Fealty unknown.
Sometimes I come as a historian,
Other times as an observer,
Peacekeeper, defender, defector.
The hyphen a bridge,
That sways and swings,
Sometimes a hop & a skip away,
Other times a week's passage,
A pilgrimage on the nubs of my knees.
I sojourn on the right side,
I forget the bridge,
That there ever was one,
That I was ever from someplace else.
But the habit of marching,
The memory of migration comes,
And soon I am crossing
The hyphen again,
The skin on my Achilles heel
Chafing, the pink, ripe dermis
Hardening before it can heal.
I describe the other side
To my parents & abuelos,
Who cannot cross the hyphen,
They are too wet, too marked,
But I am another bridge,
Spanning over an untrammeled valley
Of flesh latticework,
Waiting to ferry them over,
Their feet trodding on
The small of my back.