Crossing the Border
Jen Lighty
It seemed that the bus rose
without effort up the green mountain
into a cloud of butterflies tossing themselves
like confetti over the road.
The light on the face of the boy sitting next to me
was the reason I left home,
bones shining pharaoh gold
under tight skin turned toward the open window
where three white horses stood without moving
as we passed, heads bowed to each other in a triangle of trees
left standing in the dirt front yard of a cinderblock house,
occupants unknown.
I wish I could tell you more about them,
but it is the dream I want most—
the light
on the boy’s cheekbones,
the fluttering butterflies
earthbound.
At the border, men groped through chain-link
to change our money. A gray cat slipped through a gash
like fog that disappears as you walk into it.
There are colors in the fog that can only be seen
with eyes closed.