}} Undocumented Immigrant at Niagara |

Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










Undocumented Immigrant at Niagara

I stood beside the waterfall, listening for angels,
but all I could hear was their mad rush to drown me.
Was I really so damned that a dream could not save me?
Yet I dangled on the lip of one country, about to be expelled
in a breath that passes the tumult through which nothing else is heard,
and I bore truth like the man-bearing barrel as it plunged into the churn.
 
envoi: Christopher Smart
 
            For he is docile and can learn certain things.
 

            For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.
 

            For he can swim for life.
 
                                                            —from Jubilate Agno, c. 1759-63

At the drop of a word, a remission of debt;
If written on water, a ripple.
Pity, I cry, or Charity,
Parched lips on Largesse’s nipple.
I draw curd, a wee globulet,
And spit to reify entreaty.