by Lisa Martin
The man and I sit together, waiting for immigration court.
I am accompanying him–“here,” although “here” feels thin.
A presence, a witness, not able to do much.
He tells me about his work– in Chile was it?
He shows me pictures of quartz counter tops he made there,
Lovely streaks of gold and silver running through them.
His voice lowers.
He couldn’t sleep..
Still, he came.
Still, he wants to do the right thing.
How quietly heroic.
Here we are, holding courage in a hallway.
What a loss it would be
to squander such bravery.
To turn away a man who knows how to make stone sing.