I walked across a line.

I did not see it;

there was no sign or sound

when one foot or the other 

first landed on the other side.

The earth did not look different

nor did the clouds change places

or the sun burn more or less

harshly than before. 

An imaginary line, then?

a mere fiction on a map? 

No. When I crossed,

that line sliced through my life

like wire through a cheese, 

excised me from the web

of what I was. Before, 

there was belonging 

but not hope.

Here, I am Other, 

an anomaly, a problem.

I have – I am – no one;

I own nothing but my shirt

and these sand-eroded shoes.

For all that, I am glad I crossed.

Better this dislocated 

fragment of a life

than none.