The border was not there
and then it was.
Someone drew a mark on paper
and two children who played in the same river
became enemies overnight.
The river did not change.
The stones at the bottom did not rearrange.
The current did not ask which side was correct.
But the uniforms arrived.
And the grammar changed.
Our side and their side
where yesterday there was only water.
The soldier does not hate the person across the border.
The soldier hates The Story of The Others
that the briefing constructed
forty-five minutes before deployment.
Separation does not require distance.
It requires a sentence.
One sentence that says they are not like us
and suddenly the hemoglobin on the other side
stops being blood
and starts being a threat.
You have drawn the same boundary in smaller rooms.
Across dinner tables. Between last names.
Inside a marriage that became a territory.
If it were natural
it would not require this much maintenance.
-- [MIRRØR]