MY BROTHER BRINGS A MOVIE
ABOUT THE BROKEN HEART--
HE RECEIVES DAILY QUOTATIONS
ON HIS TELEPHONE, AND
SHARES THEM
May you grow still
enough to hear the splintering of starlight
in the winter sky and
the roar at earth's fiery core.
David
Steindl-Rast
Snow on ground.
Outside ICE office, backed in, watching the come and go
of Latinos carrying orange folders, wondering how many
wear ankle bracelets between appointments.
I'm looking to meet Melissa, looking to meet Miguel.
Get out of car, tap on car with a couple inside,
She starts the car to roll down the window.
Nope. They nod it's ok.
I walk around other side of building,
two overweight white men come down stairs
under porch ceiling, smoke as I walk by.
Why don't I get back in the car and call
instead of all this guessing. Meliisa answers,
Quince minutos, she says, ya venimos, llegando,
but they get lost, they're downtown at Immigration.
This ICE office is subtle off River Road
tucked into a strip mall between a hotel
and the vitamin store.
After I came home from Viet Nam
he showed me how I might pray to get home,
we read Eliot's Four Quartets on the lawn.
I receive messages of hope myself.
Here's one, I tell my brother: The only kinds of fights
worth fighting
are the ones you're going to lose.
How to remember
Karen''s dream, I ask myself
getting back in the
car. Zen Center. Old house.
Comfortable. Asking,
What am I doing here?
And invited in. Do
you remember the doorbell ringing?
That wasn't part of
the dream, that was earlier.
I was up. No doorbell
rang for me.
Finally, I told the
woman I wasn't getting it.
She led me into a
different room
to look for an
available vase, a frog,
the woman gave me a
slip of cactus,
slit it open with a
knife, and we lit it like a candle;
it secreted an incense
that filled the room.
This morning's ICE flight was cancelled.
Michael, was there. Our photographer.
He photographs each person, masks faces
for public purposes, if someone's being deported
we sure as hell don't want ICE to know they're coming.
D sets all the protocals. It's wondrous to see
asylum seekers wave, they're one hand
reaching down and towards us, between
chained waists and hands. Fingers and thumb,
extended. The city told M we shouldn't blow
our whistles because it puts deportees at risk
climbing the stairs. M told them, They're not
at risk because of the whistles, they're at risk
because their legs are chained. Michael's back
from New Zealand. Neither of us got the word
of the cancellation. Buses from the Detention Center
couldn't get over the pass, he says.
Safety first. He gives me a link to Maoran music.
Thanks he says to my Welcome Home.
Protocols inside ICE call for silence not advocacy.
But what's the difference, really?
Miguel and Melissa drive in beside me.
Time for coffee at McDonald's?
They've got a 7-year old boy in pajamas,
drove from Moses Lake. Monthly visits
to ICE costs rent,
takes food from children.
She's native, and Mexican. He's Mexican,
from Michoacán. Late 30s. He's been here
since he was a teenager, working. Her mother's
on the reservation. The child in pajamas
with feat--bear claws, theirs together.
Except for one dui, his record's clean.
Busted six months ago, no income since.
The child with behavioral problems
is a handful at McDonald's. She suffers anxiety,
depression. Spokane police broke his ribs.
Inside ICE, it's crowded. Standing room.
Chairs along walls filled. M met us at McDonald's.
She stays with the child
and the mother. I go in with Miguel.
Different ball game today. No interviews.
Young Chicano calling out names,
looks at papers, checks id. Appointment
in another month, same time.
Miguel's name called. We walk to the table,
no boundaries, fluid space. Miguel gives him
a new phone number. We're in and out
in ten minutes. We look at each other,
drive back to McDonald's.
Today is Tuesday. A Dios.
Cuidate en la carretera. Go with God.
Drive carefully. Nos vemos la mesa proxima.
My brother brings a movie that breaks your heart..
My wife brings a perfume that opens the dreamfield.
Messages arrive on the telephone
that's worth more than your car.
Some of the people with orange folders.
And your car, your car without a grill,
and all of its teeth gone missing.
These are the wheels turning within us,
four tires none of them matching
whirling down the highway.
Jim Bodeen
14 January--31 January 2020
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