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  • Allograft
  • Courtney Hilden (bio)

To get in here, I needed to enter with a passport. I had to be searched,had to have your eyes wander up and down me,wondering what I was aiming to steal. The answer? Nothing,or at least nothing so small that it could be sewn into the lining of my skin in thenight when the streetlights outside press through the blinds,illuminating the upper half ofthe tiniest scar.Instead, I am wondering if this forbid-ding place is where I need to reside,if I should forget the passport and the previouscitizenship,if I should switch our hearts instead,since I find even now,even now thatyou have let me in, it is not enough to know the marks upon you,the secrets,the curvesof this nation,the tickle of mustache with kiss.I want to identify as you,want to speak the same lilt, to be mistaken asa native, an insider, an always was.I want your heart to thud against my chest cage,want your gates to usher my blood, [End Page 129] want you to jolt me awake every morning, especiallythis morning, when you slipback into bed, having seenthe new imperfection I created upon you in the night.I want you to notice it, trace it with your calloused fingers, realize howdifferent it is to have a foreign musclenestled in that pericardium shell, to beat a little faster,a little higher in the chest,to be glad one of us was brave enough to cradle both hearts,not as different as you'd expect, but delicate as waterballoons and yet fierce aslovers who simply refuse to let go. [End Page 130]

Courtney Hilden

Courtney Hilden is a senior at Michigan State University, a staff member at the Center for Poetry, the former Poetry Editor of the Off beat, and the Managaing Poetry Editor of The Red Cedar Review. When she's not busy being a member of the community, she studies English and history, reads trashy books, and sings pop songs obnoxiously loud.

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