THE WALL Gargantuan in stature and beneficial It looms over both belligerents, With the intention of restraint or rekindling

erstwhile love. Dreams and thoughts may transcend it The tangible is locked and divided As are the emotions and memories That sprouted from the photos, pendants, letters, mementos That I used to look over every night, At its jagged, concrete base. Wait- could Our relentless vigour for unity shatter a brick,or tear down an icy chunk? melt the chains or scathe the bellicosity? Until then Our fists shall make the incisionsOur dreams will do the talking. ********************************************************************************

CHINATOWN

A crimson heart engulfed in blue blooded veins Their vowels are foreign, Consonants are alien. We're in love though, aren't we? With the gourmet delights Or the lanterns which warm us and kindle our spirits alight. The chefs glared at me, cigarettes in hand, Leaning against the rear doors, entrances to their culinary realms. Oil sizzles and our laughter echoes in the rouge hallways. Chopsticks snap between our fingers, as did the bones of the fillet that lie lifeless before me. Photos of folk we'll never see, A language I'll never truly understand I'm indulging in the mysteries of the orient.
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BULLET

The man fired the shot. The bullet took on a life its own, gobbling up the flesh of the tiger, its pernicious force carving a lethal incision. Only a small pool of blood was visible, yet the damage had been done. The moment passed; the man swivelled around and headed to the camouflaged vehicle, his feet squelching with silenced remorse as he trudged back. His pipe emitted wispy contours of smoke that drifted up into the air. He chucked his weapon into the van and slowly slammed the boot shut. The tiger felt the wrath of the night as it foisted itself upon the forest. The bullet's fragments were diving down every artery, seeping through every vein. The tiger's pulse sped up. Sped up from the steady tempo of a feared predator to that of a patient in the conclusive stages of their strained life. The uneven cushion of rusted leaves and the occasional rock was no longer comfortable; twitching ensued, as did forced breaths, which could've slaughtered a fly from their stench. The moon gaped at the tiger, but its lunar luminosity couldn't revive it. A wind whisked its way through the forest, henceforth, the silence played its tune. The man's tent was stained with residue from all his previous expeditions. He was standing outside it, the pipe between his lips like a little chimney in a forest that had been untouched by industry. He imagined his confrontation with the tiger without the gun. If he were to grapple the brilliant, orange beast, surely he would be a carcass by now, embedded into the earth. A second shot. This time the bullet didn't take long to glide to its victim. The fauna of the forest should've scurried away in petrification, or perhaps flinched, but the only audible noise was the thud of the gun as it dropped to the floor, tucked into the bed of lifeless dirt.

NAUTIKOS

Between 1892 and 1954, Ellis Island, NY, was the nation's largest immigration station. According to the U.S. Bureau of Immigration, approximately twelve million immigrants were "processed" for entry to the United States by the time it ceased all operations. Its moniker was the "Island of Tears" or "Heartbreak Island", as numerous hopeful travellers were rejected and forced to make the long journey home from whence they came. Today, Ellis Island Station is a museum and is amongst the locations on the National Register of Historic Places. May 1921

In spite of what you might believe, it was incredibly difficult to see the Statue of Liberty from our barge. Though the figure of Lady Liberty towered above us mere mortals like a lighthouse of radiant freedom and-fog withstandingcan be seen, I couldn't even catch a glimpse of this monolith. The violent, enthused jerking and jostling of my fellow travellers made it all the worse. I was on the verge of 17, and solitary. None of

my blood, none of my kin, no one whom loved me was with me any longer. "Go, Dejan. Papa will drop you at the port. Go to America..." My mother annunciated the word "America" like "Am-rikah" rather than "Amer-rikah". I forced to myself to vigorously practice the latter each night fifty times. I was under the unfounded impression that sounding accustomed to the labyrinth that was America would make it seem like I've already had an affair with this nation; that I'm already familiar with obecan zimjlu- the promised land. The station was one of the most magnificent buildings I had ever seen. A series of minaret-like structures protruded from the top layer of the building, while the symmetrical layout of the windows was a synthesis of mechanical power and fragile dexterity. The linear white streaks that flanked each window were also identical to one another, though of late they had seemed to be stained with scintillas of black and brown. Faint inklings of palms an grubby fingers could be seen on certain windows. The clouds that floated above the towers were pale and gloomy, veiling a bright azure sky. I wasn't certain of the time, as the comrades aboard the ship all recited different times when I'd asked them. Upon figuring that we all had to get into a queue formation to traverse the station, I thought it would be very much like our school assemblies each Friday morning. We'd all line up, doing our best not to giggle at our stuttering teacher, and count ourselves off to affirm that we were all there, all in the line, all with each other safely. It wasn't to be, however. Mazy, haphazardly arranged imitations of a line weaved their way through the corridors of the station. Medical officers would pick and prod you, either grinning or gaping, and would apply a label with a bright, white initial on you if you were unfortunate enough to contract some nasty ailment. This wasn't difficult to do, as certain quarters of the barge were cesspools of God-knows-what. Thankfully, avoiding all contact with shipmates on the trip (handshake rejections included) had served me well. The doctors would emblazon a capital "N" if you had a neck problem, "PG" if you were pregnant, "FT" if a foot-related predicament was the case, and so on and so forth. Rumours circulated that people had died in the hospital facilities here, but among the congested bustle, the absence of a soul or two would not be acknowledged. A man whom had been in my quarters on the barge, Sergio, was standing across the grand hall, in tears, begging the steadfast officers to let him pass through the gates and frolick in the fresh pastures of this fertile land. Officers dragged him into a holding room that had the title of "Deportation"- a word I could barely pronounce. I heard yelps of "por favor" as the door was slammed shut by the last officer to enter the room. Sergio was a maestro, a man of many talents. He was completely literate and owned a vineyard back in Spain. We leant of each others' past through fragmented, clumsy, ambisinister English. The awkward vowels and alien words that clambered out of my mouth veiled my mothertongue- I was in the linguistic guise of an American. As I shuffled towards the final assessment, known as the sinister 29 questions, I could feel my briefcase becoming heavier, or perhaps my sweaty, shaking fingers were attenuating; becoming weaker, submitting to my anxiety. "Healo, sir", I mumbled. "Name?" he barked. "Dejan mechavic", I said. He flicked his clean, meaty fingers through my documentation. Papa had warned me not to lose

this, and for two weeks I had folded it cautiously, ensuring not to cause the smallest tear, and stuffed it down my pants, where no one could find it and where I wouldnt forget it. "A Yew-go-slavian, eh...we'll getchu an interpreter. Wouldju liyke an interpreterrr?" I hadn't the slightest clue what an interpreter was, but a tall, fair-skinned, clean cut man in a oceanblue uniform smiled at me. The questions begun. I could understand them, and was sure of my ability to converse in English. Alas, the interpreter intervened. "Age?" the officer barked, his pig-like eyes still scanning my documents. " Sedamnaest", I replied. "Seventeen", the interpreter shot back in an instant, stroking his recently shaven beard. "Awk-yew-pay-shan?" officer queried. He had an accent with a strong drawl and occasionally whistled when encountering S's. "Muzicar u Nju Orleans" The interpreter grinned. "A musician in New Orleans. He peered down to see my luggage, and could make out the harmonica bulging from the side. The proximate questions followed a similar pattern, an almost comedic exchange between myself, this stout officer, and the intellectual interpreter. Upon conclusion, the officer leered at the documents, and then at me. "Alright son, I bee-leeve yew are gewd to go. Just show me your musician's vendors license, and you're all set. If you ain't gawt one, then I'm afraid you can nawt enter the Yew-nited States." What? I didn't have a license if any sort. Icy drops of sweat began to make their salty journey down my flushed, dehydrated face, and my heartbeat accelerated with paranoid confusion. What license? I had to tell the truth, no? I don't have one. "ja no imati ga." The interpreter looked me right in the eye for a split second. He then reclined in the creaky chairs. " Ralph, he's going to work at a jazz club, they'll send us proof of license once they see him. He's good." the interpreter patted my dusty back, though I'm sure he furtively regretted doing so, as I saw him rub his bony fingers against the wall. He didn't explicitly smile, but his voice waxed reassurance. "Welcome to the U.S.,prijatej (brother). " he winked and walked off into the crowd, his jet black shoes pounding the marble floor noisily. I almost had the impulse to halt him; ask how he learnt my people's language, where he had been, what he had seen, but this vulpine figure vanished. A saviour I would never see again. Walking through the final door, out onto the other side, induced a feeling of remorse rather than jubilation. The first time I grappled with injustice was on the playing fields of Yugoslavia as a 8 year old. My friend, Dan, and I had been repeatedly hurling a rough, old jagged ball at each other. It was my ball, but one day Dan caught the ball, swivelled around, and ran away, clasping it near his chest. I stood there, and soon began bawling my eyes out. It was the first time the concept of unfairness settled in my mind. My mother claims that the fact that neither my brother nor my parents could join me in my quest to New Orleans was also injustice. The fact that, despite everyone in my family toiling away in our mill endlessly, we were still poor was injustice. When would I meet them next? Would I ever indulge in Pljeskavica, our national dish, ever again? Sergio's rejection was unjust and unfounded. Heck, he would've done more good to this nation than

half the people here combined. I cautiously stepped onto the ferry, amidst an a swarm of delighted, certified immigrants, trying not to step on anyone's toes (though mine were). I cushioned my briefcase between my trousers after I miraculously found a seat. I was about to drift off to sleep, but was awoken by screams of joy. Intrigued, I nudged and dodged my way to the other end of the starboard. As I lifted my head up, a surge of goosebumps contagiously wrapped themselves around my body-there she was, Lady Liberty herself, her beautiful, ovular eyes directed at the horizon. Was my admittance to this new land unfair? Would my preemptive, moral bias distort my illicit entrance? These immigrants, from the fields, townships and cities of the earth all travel to this land to holster the weapons of a wronged past, to coexist and root out a life of higher standards, fracture injustice in favour of a prevailing sense of harmony and freedom. They shall never get their ball back, or perhaps see their own kin ever again. Rather, the opportune winds of glory propel them towards this New World with the indubitable intention of altering the identity of America forever- a fertile land in which dreams will be preserved, created, and nurtured long beyond my lifetime.