“Border” by Dan Grossman

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Purchase Mindfucking Roundabouts of Carmel, Indiana here

Border

When the customs agent asks
for your soul’s secret number
you can assume this information has some value
to the underpaid clerks 
on our side of the border-fence.

Assume this as well: the agent isn’t some
bitter existentialist.  There’s no worn copy
of Being and Nothingness in his back pocket.
Anyway, our government doesn’t appreciate sarcasm
and the camera on the ceiling is trained on him
as well as you.

And men value their day jobs.
You did when you had one
but now when it can no longer sustain you
or vice-versa
you come to this place.  

You have your reasons for leaving 
but this is not a confession.
So don’t expect forgiveness
regarding the people you stepped on 
in order to get here.  

This is not a police station.  
When the agent asks the purpose of your visit
do not answer “murder” 
just because the men who gang-raped you
wait beyond the border
and you want to choke them on their own genitalia.

You cannot yet cross.  
You’ve not yet obtained your secret number.  
Such numbers are assigned by nearby agencies
after you first sell them your soul.
To be leased back to you, revocable upon delinquency.
This is normal.