Border Crossing

1 November 2016

When you get there. At the frontier.
It is very dangerous. Invisible precipices.
Water sharp as knives.
There are children playing between rocks.
Many guns scan the bodies of the children.
Suitcases tear open. A play of hands
taking out papers. Be careful.
Vultures abound. Claws abound.
Errors of all sorts
(typographical, factual,
neurophysical, splintering
threads marked past and future,
all the ruptured codes).
There is a film playing
on small screens visible only
to those who know how to read
emptiness. Beheadings. You will see
many beheadings. And rocks that looked
innocent become pits of blood
at the back of the head. Hands
open papers that say
Go back into emptiness.
They will give you a small stone they call bread.
It has eyes that know how to search
every one of your veins. Evidence
against you always exists. Even
when you do not.
Be prepared to wait. Many years.
It will come to that.
It is what we are here for.
If you have anything to give
they will tell you its value
in centimetres of ground dust.
They will weigh it out
and place a seal on the scrap of paper
that tells what you must suffer. What
you must permit.
To be made of you. All the
white shirts of the school children,
their pressed blue
pants and dresses. Dust
will become of them. Voices
gone into a machine to shred and recolour.
Waste products. The cracked
letters of all your names
gone into waste products.
Realigned. Reapportioned.
Among the constellations of random fate.
The shining scatter. Do you know
where you were born. Inwardly. In
the millennia before and after
birth. Suckled by the frozen
waterwheel of moonlight. Interstellar
exposure. A hundred
kilometres to every side
of you the dead are
sleeping on the stones. Eaten away
by all the faces worn in a lifetime. The hills
are strong with the
bones of whispering. All the
earth languages forever
closed to you. There is
no translation. At the
frontier they will tell you
your options. Which are
not options. They will spell it out to you
in death words. Like
momentarily, visual confirmation,
initiatory phase, facilitation
procedural, inspection of
orifices. So it is
you will pass your life.
Pass on.
Be processed.
Enter perhaps. Return perhaps.
Mr Miss Mrs Señor Senõra
Nada Nadie No one
Niemandsname Outis.
In all the glitter of your
sweat-stained trembling.
At the frontier where
everything must be opened,
laid bare. All
the intimate histories. Your nakedness
laid out, ready for erasure.
Perfected nobody
transiting to nowhere.

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