Identity
Not just waiting in a queue,
living in it at the border
of your neighbour's country,
sleeping there, eating, or not eating.
Do you still clutch the leather wallet
with its cards all gone, as proof
that once you'd had them?
Would the thick woolly overcoat
wrap further round each day?
Your face featureless, a screen gone blank,
eyes registering nothing, heart pumping blood
for feelings that have now evacuated;
a grave would mock when a living claim's denied.
But I insult you to presume to know
what you feel. I know only what it's like
to not exist in a room full of people
who don't share my views, to not rate a thought
from someone I care about,
to speak to someone who is looking
past my shoulder at someone else.
Ros Schulz
