WINNER OF THE 2013 MATT CLARK POETRY PRIZE
SELECTED BY JENNY BOULLY
Sometimes you see the leaves as birds who have traveled all night and come to rest at dawn. Sometimes you feel the space between molecules of honey. Sometimes you are at the airport. Sometimes you are at the hospital. You find your seat an hour before sunrise and watch polar bears swim slowly underwater through the glass. Oh immigration, oh fluorescent lights, the surgeon’s rubber gloves, brush-tips of death against your cheek. This country stamps your passport and hands it back forever changed.