Who defines the line between foreign and domestic?
Where is the threshold between what is new and what is familiar?
Big men in big houses pick the box in which I fit
Their ambitions pulling the trigger on the gun that
decides if I am allowed to enter.
Like a passport I hold the signs of borders forced upon me
Signs that maintain separation from my neighbours.
My spine worn from the whiplash of being open
and returned to me.
Whose job is it to determine my worth for entry?
Now I collect stamps with pride.
I’m not the six year old who folded in on herself
after learning her body was not a safe place.
Big men in big houses be damned, I am a miracle
holding a worn spine but still standing.
I define whose stamps adorn me now.