at the checkpoint made of tree

trunks and barrels filled with sand,

a group of pale bus riders standing

in a meandering line depends

on one man whose belly will

soon have his blouse buttons burst.

am I a Jew: a Muslim: a Catholic:

which one does he want to hate more:

will my name on the soiled piece

of paper confuse him or make him

pull me out by my shirt sleeve

as if I were a disposable part

of the human race, deemed perhaps

to be worthy of living or dying,

as my uncle used to say, by the look

of my penis: am I saved or doomed

if he suddenly remembers, or I do,

that we went to the same high school:

as I try to keep my sternomastoids

from twitching, my mind from being forced

to accept that someone who has no power

over life is a bigger coward than someone

who does, he positions himself before me,

his sourish breath becoming my breath:

Do you know if Maria’s still there:

his words burn on my face like ember:

there, meaning in the city: and I feel

cold sweat run down my spine: am I

done for if I say yes, or if I say no,

pretend I did or did not recognize him:

but he just grins and hands me

back my papers, moving to a young woman

next to me and motioning with his hand

for her to step out, still glancing at me,

while I rock back and forth, staring

past him, past my life, at the jagged line

of skeleton trees on the mountain ridge

where the dying daylight still lingers.