Crossing the Border

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

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.

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