Marjorie Lotfi Gill
Issue 15 • Spring 2015
When her sister moved across the border
there was no border, not even a line
like the one they'd drawn in chalk
down the centre of their bedroom,
dividing walls and window, the light
parsed out between them
like a parent’s love. Only the door,
its point of entry and exit, was shared.
And when their own children were born
they passed through glowing checkpoints,
Sundays, not thinking of them
as lines, or points on a map,
but as traffic signals or a low bridge
that never shut, even in high wind.
Now, in the still of ceasefire, she finds
there’s no suspension left;
she drives to the edge of no man’s land,
flings one arm over to the other side,
like she did as a girl, just before sleep,
willing her sister to wake,
to clasp her hand and hold it.