I.

A smuggling enterprise
Enriches my border-crossing ministry
Between two northern village churches.
Each week, pas de problem, I cross the dividing line
Till one day I pull up to the US customs patrol.
And the exchange proceeds as follows:

Agent - Where do you live?
In Canada, North Hatley village.

Citizenship? American.
(I want to add: – “the hemisphere, not the country”
but hold my peace; remembering
border patrols exist to enforce nationalism.)

Where you headed?
Pointing to a steeple two doors down, I smile:
To that white church, your neighbour here!

How long will you be in the States?
Just long enough to conduct worship and
Have a planning meeting with my committee.

You the minister? he frowns.
I am!

Pop your trunk, please!

II.

Moments and a few yards later,
I park on the other side,
Savouring the delicious thrill
Of having been, however briefly, considered dangerous.
Who did he think I was?
What was he looking for?
Two cars, an SUV, and one huge truck ahead of me
Sailed through with barely a word or nod.
What does he know?

We light the flame, sing, have coffee;
In our meeting everything flows like water.
All is nearly forgotten when,
On the way home, pulling up to la poste des douaines
I roll down my window and - amazingly –
Nothing happens!
A Canadian guard I recognize waves me on through!

Quelle dommage!
How disappointing!
Attention! I am dangerous!

Has she no clue how many liberal ideas
I spirit back and forth each trip across this border?
Whole trunk loads full
Of Unitarian prayers delivered weekly
Between those on either side who faithfully believe
They’re the kind that can really
Save us now.