Michael Dumanis
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I crossed a border, I crossed a line, I crossed a threshold, I crossed a divide,
I forded the strait between nowhere and wish, I shifted my body’s weight
in the direction of the sun, I was born in a well and began to crawl up
toward a light in the muck, I believed I’d be well
were I anywhere else, so I threw myself up
but nobody caught me as I dropped down, so I threw myself up
every day for a life, the stone earth below me my hard trampoline,
a hiss in the throat telling me what I needed, to live
in a bleached neighborhood in the shade of high trees
that bounced their helicopter fruit against the breeze,
so I believed a promise on the side of the imagined line I wasn’t on,
like softer bread or bolder shade of sky,
a promise like another me with a changed name and posture, were I
to cross the border, to cross the line, to cross the threshold, to cross the divide
seared into the map in my head, so I spent my last coins
on papers and gear, leaving my mother asleep in her chair
as I rushed open-armed toward the door made of air
that the gathering dust storm began to blow shut,
my faith in nothing other than each breath,
also invisible.
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