THE BORDER

Whatever strip of whatever border she will cross,

this girl believes in the possibility of ruin.

In a photograph taken the morning of her departure,

she stands beside a car:

the verandah’s iron rails conspire with the sun,

slanting bars of light across her face;

swiveled at the waist, she twists

to catch a last glimpse of home—

or so we might imagine in order to tell this tale.

From this point forward, she will want

a dark flecked by stars and wind;

dirt roads where mermammy wanders

seeking love; a place where spider tales

are truths spun at dusk and rain hums

in the eaves, where the night’s voice

is the trawling sea.