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Nocturnes: The Wall
The construction project was, of course, massive---
an enormous boost to the economy;
millions benefitted financially,
directly or indirectly; but wealth---
wealth worked for and hard, not criminally
obtained by preying upon, or taking
advantage of those among us who are weak,
or in pain, or even misinformed.
We began half a mile from the southern
border---its entire length---excavating
the largest foundation trench on record.
On the north side, we also placed a sequence
of bunkers, capable of withstanding
direct bombing. Then we began the wall.
Forty storeys, concrete reinforced by steel;
turrets at the top for machine guns and
cannons, placed closely enough to fully
sweep across any invasion force
foolish enough to make the attempt.
Corridors and rooms occupy the northern
side; but the southern side, fully half
of the wall's breadth is a solid block.
Also, the wall's rise tilts at a slight angle,
southward, making it unscalable.
A network of electrified and barbed wire
covers the southern face like a lace veil.
When they chose my design and appointed
me chief architect and director, I thought
of the last, shy smile of my lover who died.
Behind the bunkers, the anti-aircraft
system is housed, controlled by computers.
The airspace above the wall is secure.
The remainder of the foundation trench
was converted into a canal, flooded
and stocked with poisonous snakes, as well as
their ordinary, natural prey.
During construction, the military
protected the workers and patrolled the line,
having been ordered to shoot to kill
anyone moving north across the border.
Marines, Army, and Air Force: many of them
had volunteered, or asked, or begged to be
transferred to the project. Many remained
to assist the border patrol in the
wall's full operation. At the opening
(or, should one say, the closing) ceremony---
with three cabinet secretaries in
attendance---the red, white, and blue ribbon
was adoned with another one, pink, slender,
and precious to me: the hair ribbon
of my lover who died of an overdose.
Have you read Poe's short tale, "The Cask Of
"Amontillado," that tale of stark vengeance?
Before we sealed the last, and central part
of the wall, a minor drug dealer was brought
into my office, having been caught
in the very act of dealing to one of
the workers, at a saloon in the nearest
town. We took only a little extra time
to construct an interior niche to
contain him, a kind of human sacrifice
like the ancients had often done. We allowed
him to watch (with mounting horror) the swift
preparations, all the while complaining of
the violation of his rights as he
perceived them to be. We had a good laugh---
this felon, not even a citizen,
appealing to his rights. What of the rights
of those whose lives had been ruined or destroyed
by his felonius enterprises. Just
before we interred him, still alive, our
chief medical officer injected
him with the heroin he had tried to sell.
Fifty years---the same as in Poe's story---
since the wall was finished. I often visit,
walking below it on the north side,
thinking of my long ago lover,
who died of an overdose of heroin.
