The DMV camera flashes;
for a second I am immortal —
blinking, crooked-smiled, a citizen of nowhere.
They tell me to wait.
The plastic seat sweats against my thighs;
a boy beside me eats Flamin’ Hot Cheetos,
his fingerprints bloodying every page of his workbook.
In my wallet:
a torn movie ticket,
my father’s faded voter ID from a country that voted him out,
an expired green card.
My face younger, fuller,
a woman who still believed in applying twice, appealing once.
I watch the numbers light up over the counter —
B198. B199.
The woman at B200 asks about “home address” and “legal name,”
like those are simple things,
like you don’t lose them the way you lose teeth,
one at a time, without noticing.
Outside, teenagers skateboard across the lot,
their wheels scraping up sparks from the concrete.
An old man feeds pigeons the ends of his sandwich,
talking to them in a language
even they don’t understand anymore.
When they call my number,
I stand too quickly.
My knees crack like bad translations.