The Border

You could walk
across back then
through a turnstile
and you didn’t
need a passport
and one night
this guy I knew
carried a girl
who was too drunk
back in his arms
because she said
that her feet
hurt. We bought
tacos at the food
trucks, and wiped
sweaty hair
away out of our

I made up stories
for myself sometimes
like how I’d meet
someone and we
would fall in love
forever which
was rich

because the most
I ever did
was freak with
randoms on
the indoor
balcony above
the club

and get tequila
shots to add
to margaritas.

I keep thinking
about walls these
days, like playing
cards set upright

or like teeth
set in a child’s mouth
far apart

and what they’d
mean or what they’d
look like
scruffing low across
the future
like the edge of
the whole world
or like a hand
pushing your hair

from your cheek.

I made up stories
about how we were
the ones
who’d see the
problems and we’d
fix them

but we’d get back

those nights
our shoulders
and our breath
dreaming vague maps
on the windows.

Elizabeth McMunn-Tetangco lives in California’s Central Valley and co-edits One Sentence Poems. Her chapbooks, Various Lies, Lion Hunt, and Water Weight, are available from Finishing Line Press, Plan B Press, and Right Hand Pointing, respectively.

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1 Response to The Border

  1. knudthirup says:


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