Tuesday, May 3, 2016

The Displaced

Photo by Antoine Merour

Steely gusts scattered our lives across the ocean, across the desert, across the tundra, the street, the border. The shutters closed against us. No one at home. Get the hell out. We don’t want you. In our pain, in our terror, we remained confused for a while. Confusion is better than acquiescence. It is more comfortable than understanding the exact intent. Too many don’t care or worse, they actively predict death. The end. The streets cleaned up. The human refuse gone. Just go now. Everyone holding their own troubles close to the chest, reaching out to push away instead of commiserate. It becomes too dangerous. What if, what if, what if? What if there is a bad seed inside these tumbling apples. It will spread vermin across our land. Or worse, land values will diminish.

In the end, though, what is our land? The first to get here? How far back shall we go? Since we cannot find the beginning, the origin of origins, we can agree to agree on recorded history. Whose precious foot touched the land before all others? These questions run deep in our veins even if ignored. One cannot say immigrant since everyone came from somewhere else at some point in time. Your history echoes through the narrow halls of persuasion. It is curtailed by power and control. It only comes to a full stop when someone defines the borders. When someone says, you and us. When someone positions threat above courtesy. Difference above common denominators. The narrative sets the playing field and both are ever changing. Your cry and disbelief are heard in empty corridors.

Your face and broken eyes remind of other ostracisms but no one is talking. Look at the surface and all you will find is what you have predetermined. Slide off the surface into the chasm of not wanting to bother and you will find a crowd. They may remember how voices cut air, sliced wind, to remove imagined enemies. The void unravels ceaselessly and bridges are built nevertheless. Cross at will in the weather of all days and nights. Hear the slight footsteps reduced from a game of chance. Sing of possibilities. Trudge the road. Nail the spot. Enter anyway.

Another version. The unedited. http://www.museumofvestigialdesire.net/offices/columnists/celeste-regal/displaced

No comments:

Post a Comment