Crossing the Border

I saved every passport
that I was issued, shown

at one border or another,
wondering each time if

the men who questioned
my credentials, longed

to be guards since
they were children.

Airports are as harsh
as Purgatory, immigrants

in charge of sweeping
the scorched feathers

and saints remaining silent
confusing complicity with holiness.

After my passport is stamped
I walk on home soil, still

a foreigner after decades of abiding,
hiding my accent under my coat.

(previously published in SoFloPoJo, 2025)