Roubaix. Tourcoing. The town
is of little consequence
save that it is the last station

before an arbitrary and undramatic
frontier. And of the station itself
I remember only the children –

he sailor suited with. a bouquet
of roses and his little sister
in red and carrying forget-me-nots,

pleasant children but unsmiling,
urged from the grownup crowd
to express their collective greeting,

On the train I lay with my boots
up on the dusty upholstery
and my head in the nurse's lap.

The sky darkened; rain streaked
the windows. She touched my face,
smoothing it until there were no

eye-sockets, no nose, no lips, only
the requisite featurelessness
on which she could draw the face

they would all recognize, scratching in
the aristocratic shadow
below the cheekbones, inking

the benevolent eyes. The deception
is professional, an act of love.
I have affected the manners

of the people, have studied
insouciance, spontaneity. To the douaniers
there will be nothing to declare,

Only the children expect contraband,
something ancient to be unwrapped
carefully from its dark cloth.

I do not know myself what I carry.
Maybe it is a curious wind-instrument,
a flute too fragile now to handle

that played a melody no one now living
has heard or could imagine;
maybe it is a piece of yellow skin

whose markings may be writings;
maybe it is a shallow bowl of stone
filled with blackened kernels –

seeds that might, with someone's tears
and prayers, be urged to germinate.
The children wait, quietly agog,

But most will be disappointed,
We board the next train to the frontier,
my arms filled with their flowers.