By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

 

IN a blink, my suitcase was gone
my passport, my documents
my formal shoes, my camera
gifts I bought for my friends, my lipstick
I lost everything

the police took my statement
making me repeat my family name,
spelling every letter
“P as in property, A as in assessment
S as in scenario, A as in another assessment
L as in land, O as in ownership”
Again, spell the letters, in simple terms, he says
“P as in pig, A as in abattoir
S as in sty, A as in another abattoir
L as in lechon, O as in overcooked”,
clear enough?
a lengthy exercise, when he could just say
“Write it down.”

I wanted to cry, but no tears fell
there was fear, somewhere at the core
fear that the afternoon will pass
and despair, that the night falls
and I will never recover what was taken away

the spelling was over, we were driven
to the fence where we could find our things
laid out on the side street, a market for the lost
where everything stolen is sold
“Take everything that belongs to you”, he said
“That’s mine!”, Sister Mary John shouted,
“it has my name on it”, and she picked up
her padding
there was nothing there, for me,
everything was sold, my denims, wardrobe,
my winter boots, there were just the books
Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged
Che Guevara’s Guerilla Warfare
Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat

My first taste of America, land of the free
flea markets of freedom, of human fleas preying
seizing goods, seizing dreams, selling
whatever was seized, back to me

I remember every little detail
that singular trip, an awakening
at this time, in the kitchen, slicing onions
forcing out tears, tears I would have shed
for my many losses, realizing
I never really needed
what I have lost

Share your Comments or Reactions

comments

Powered by Facebook Comments