hips a mountain range; spine a wall.
I am a border city and you are ‘construction imminent’ and we
to call it loss.
the desert wind stirs my bones.
were it not for the anchors – I’d run,
but they’re buried so deep in this inhospitable terrain
concrete columns reaching
don’t shake loose…
the whole thing could come crashing down,
setting everyone free
making children of the waiting world –
the borders will no longer be our names.