My mother became a secretary
In 1962. She wanted
to go to school,
her black hair pinned
to another girl’s life.
her father refused
her. He coiled
her body inside the hub
of his sixteen-wheeler. She
studied
stenography, short hand, languages
spoken by braised nylons, white
gloves, twenty years of disciplined wrists
raised above a keyboard. Later
she destroyed herself
in six feet of Canada
pruned by Lake Erie, his
wooden boat, his silence.
You have to earn
enough so that when
they come, you can sew
each bill into your coat,
split open
the seam of your pants
for emeralds, smuggle
silver past the guards.
We have come
so far. Switched out
every tooth for rubies,
kept our mouths
closed at the border.
What I am telling you
is not useful. You are safe
until morning. Wherever you are, know
that the window breaks open.
Nellie Le Beau's writing appears and is forthcoming in Cordite, foam:e, Westerly, The Suburban Review, Moving Words, and elsewhere. Her poems have twice shortlisted for the Fair Australia Prize.