by Lisa Suhair Majaj
The guy says, “I need to see some ID.”
She shrugs, starts digging
through her scuffed brown leather bag.
She’s got wiry hair, olive skin,
eyes glinting dark and intense--
in his eyes, clearly not local.
She hands over a passport:
picture inside, family name,
all the particulars
that would pull her out of line
in another place.
He peers at strange stamps,
fluid text, reads out loud:
“Place of birth – Palestine.”
A land with no borders, too many maps.
He’s turning pages, brow furrowed.
She's waiting, white-knuckled,
face a studious mask.
Finally he glances up,
shakes his head. “Sorry,
no out-of-state passports
accepted here.”
No out-of-state passports!
She's got too much dignity to argue,
or even laugh. But as I watch her
walk out, head held high.
I think of that state, still dream
and desire, on a land green with olives --
those trees standing patient and unyielding
as memories of earth.
Lisa Suhair Majaj is the author of two poetry chapbooks and co-editor of three collections of critical essays on international women writers. She lives in Nicosia, Cyprus.
