You stand in front of glass,
it opens without knocking,
they have women unarmed
sitting at counters, smiling,
‘Hello, how may I help you?’
They pay people to help you.
There are words you must hold like blankets in snow:
You repeat them as third language,
they feel hot on your tongue,
they make you remember a child with broken teeth,
remember a woman with torn womb,
the man eating the dirt.
Here, you can say them
again and again
to many strangers
who will take your story
like a startled baby.
In fits and starts, you come to know words
as soldiers standing at check points:
Your story climbs their walls and waits for you
outside their office
you cannot open the hearts of words
written as law.