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.