VISA APPLICATION 

A. SHAIKH

At least the Atlantic 

is a country 

with no borders. At least there is salt 

and your fingers 

reaching to taste. At least 

fantasy. A confession that spans 

the distance — this dream 

of democracy and 

your clean sheets. In the dream, 

our tenderness is pink 

to touch, a lipstick smear 

on the cup of tea 

I brew for you. What else is love 

if not a morning ritual : 

the promise to rise and then rise 

again. I am falling 

in the dark when you text 

begging to stay 

in bed. Safe 

from the England sun smirking — 

the calculated heat of 

capitalism 

demanding a new day. 

But you don’t want the sun, 

instead a photograph 

of what an American girl 

would do for you 

if given the chance — 

as if language could bridge the ache 

between my hands and your 

hip bone as if this sentence 

could spit 

in your mouth. 

It hurts to try but I undress 

and imagine you anyway, 

forgetting the thick lines 

the empire drew 

long before we met. 

I am a bad citizen, 

a guilty lesbian 

to both my countries, 

partitioning 

my thighs. 

On the internet, 

there is no fee 

to undo you — syllable 

by syllable — I become 

inexpensive, 

of good character, 

naturalised, 

your nice wife. 

Truth be told, 

it makes me sick 

to need in this way. 

Collecting evidence 

for the government on 

just how easily 

I was seduced. 

The decade 

between us is a reminder of how 

time dissolves 

like a sugar cube 

under the right fever. 

The payments 

to the lawyers pooling 

like sweat, still I struggle 

to forgive. Money 

that would be better spent 

on wedding cake and 

butterscotch schnapps. 

My sweetheart, 

there is little 

I can offer 

outside of my body, 

my passport, useless 

for our queer 

romance, 

my last name, 

a red target. 

History ripens 

into memory when 

I start to crave 

your fingerprint 

on my throat.

Listen to A. read "Visa Application" below: