Passage 3.
Steadily pedaling north
over the Winooski River,
I wait for
God’s healing.
The gray gravel path
crunches
as we two
take turns drafting
then knife through the wind
helped by Ne-oh-gah,
the gentle fawn spirit
of the south.
To the east,
the moose spirit,
O-yan-do-ne,
drifts down
Mallett’s Bay
from the Green Mountains.
To the west,
Lake Champlain
and the Adirondacks
bar the way to the mighty
panther spirit,
Da-jo-ji.
Sailboats
tack toward
the Cut
5k ahead
skirting the marble and granite
bouldered causeway
on the straight and narrow.
I raise the red flag
to summon the bike ferry.
Spirited passengers
stow their bikes
for the choppy ten- minute transit.
I will not let
my biking companion’s
Don’t care
Send them back
let them cut the landscapes
down
in their own country
usurp
careful judgment.
I, not he, am
the usurper.
I will be the law-breaker here
ICE notwithstanding.
It is I
who drove Felix
from Newark
to safety
far from gangs
in El Salvador.
West
is a good direction.
Left is not.
Right is not.
Ya-oh-gah,
the destructive
Bear-spirit
of the north wind,
is stopped
by Ga-oh,
spirit of the wind
who passes
through us.
Clusters of immigrants,
Juan Diegito,
and Carlotica,
clutch the home they seek.
