Greg Abbott There is a border in your body You can’t cross Like all borders It wasn’t always there One day you were running It was the last time You would ever run How strong your legs were then A pair of horses who smell the barn Their manes blowing over their necks But the storm had already passed Whine of chainsaws being angled in Everywhere limbs The wind had sheared off Could have been a premonition Had you been paying attention Breathless you approached The border where your life would break In two On one side you could walk On the other you can’t Something fell from above Like a decree Do you know Yeats? I doubt it Not many governors do You were Leda the branch the swan With green feathers Did you put on its knowledge With its power? How could you not see it As intentional What are the chances that The branch would break Despite James Wright saying it would not Just as you were running under it? You sued the utility company Responsible for keeping Something like that from happening So you wouldn’t have to hate God But it gave you a lifelong distrust Of the natural world Alert to the conspiracy Between wind and trees Disdainful of anyone running Towards or away from anything Because there is a border in your body You can’t cross No one shall cross the border At the waist of the continent On your watch And because your legs can’t feel pain Let others entangle themselves In the cursive scribble of razor wire Strung across the river so that They have no choice But to grab it to keep from drowning Sometimes in dreams you find yourself Walking again In the desert abloom with flowers Protected by evolution’s razor wire The desert before there were countries Suddenly you know You’ve come to where The border will be And squat and piss on the hard ground As if to mock it Urine splashing off your shins You sob to be able to feel it In your dream you’ve become An old woman Walking north But when you wake To your diminished legs under a white sheet You forget