Immigrants
Ice hockey is being played either we are here or
Not. We chant and scream the name of
Our captain, as if our mother are
Pushing and having us born again on a plane
Heading to the west coast.
Elite players are making wall of gold nuggets
A season, and they sail boats in the
Off-season, accompanied by cute
Young girls. He SHOTS and he SCORES.
The black round puck slithers beyond the goal line
And we celebrate with our hands in the air.
We are fathers now, but the referee rules
No goal for the color of the puck is
Brown – that was what the immigration officer
Whispered into my ear as well, “your pupils are
Brown,” – and to be honest with you,
It’s okay as long as our hair is
Black. A full moon hangs high in the sky.
Trailing the silvery reflection of steel rails, our frozen
Hands listen to the howling train –
Howling train / beyond the lofty cliff / two lines of Canadian geese / flying east
We can’t swim / across the Pacific Ocean / neither / can the train
Smoke billows from the chimneys, and yes,
All workers are now home under the same nightly sky. And this
White guy, George, is my neighbour. Looks like he is
Making some stir-fries tonight.
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