Am I as ugly as in the photo?
Can I be let through,
once I have handed the official
my passport with its old visas
and its rain of stamps?
Am I really a wanted terrorist?
The man at the desk gauges the open passport,
belonging to the European Union,
by the chief of police in Copenhagen.
The man looks up at me, checks his computer,
for perhaps I am on the run
– perhaps not?
I wait. The queue grows behind me,
while my data is scrutinized.
I am not a criminal, not
a trafficked woman
nor an illegal immigrant
have no forged identity papers
have not smuggled cigarettes or stuffed
other unlawful things into my luggage.
I have no previous convictions
there is nothing to go on, but perhaps
that is a mystery?
The body is not national,
it passes easily into dreams
mountain ranges, rivers and oceans,
routes traced by swallows.
the clouds’ passport
valid for travel to all countries and back.
Translated from Danish by David McDuff