Self-Portrait as Border
Some rivers shift course, but
I stand firm, a nexus of rejection,
that line denoting separation of north
and good, evil and south, dark and
white. Welcoming no one, I stand
guard, opposing all with my flag
of diminishment. Squint, and you
still can’t see me. Your bare feet
won’t stir my dust. I am nowhere,
but remain here — that feeling of
prideful despair, strong, resolute,
inflexible foe to all who dare cross.
“Self-Portrait as Border” first appeared in October 2018 in Minute Magazine. Many thanks to the editors for taking my poem.
O at the Edges 
Yikes – my brain leaps back & forth between wondering what invisible borders I’ve created in my own head and thinking you’ve written a fine description of far too many politicians: prideful despair, strong, resolute, inflexible foe to all who dare cross.
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We have those people who are foaming at the mouth at the thought of immigrants crossing borders…gah! What would this country be without immigrants?
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A line drawn for political greed, as in reality, the land belongs to none, but to all.
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One of the local borders, a street, marks the county line between where I live and the next county, just north of us. The difference is so noticeable: my county’s side is in drastic need of road repairs, with foot-deep potholes dotting the road. But cross the street, and the drive is smooth – no potholes. Politics!
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