Janice D. Soderling

J a n i c e   D .   S o d e r l i n g

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Another Immigrant Story

On the arduous journey out of it, under a sky bleak as skimmed milk, we trekked and lied and murdered when we had to. Spring shoots retreated into their bulbs. Grass shrank to stubs. We pressed on, across the tired desert, over the mountain which you can find on any map, across the rocks of the avalanche which tumbled in a song of destruction. The rain fell: small, fine nails, shrapnel. Wary, attentive, pale, we arrived with our children, finally, at our obscure destination which was exactly as they had warned it would be.