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When I Tell the Story of the Time Our Undocumented Neighbors Called 911 for Us

I always want to start with the metal stairs
that rose over our apartment door
to theirs. Each step, for traction in snow, was patterned

like chains of mouths, open and fanged. And in autumn
the mouths filtered the a.m. sun, spattering
the walk with vesicae piscis which translates

to fish bladders, but means peaked halos, like almonds,
in paintings of Christ. The neighbors became our friends
because as strangers they gonged down the stairs

to help with boxes when we moved in, and I want
to name them, but I cannot name them...

continue reading at Tin House

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