To my American friends—so many of you here in Puerto Vallarta, living with open hearts, fairness, and respect for all walks of life—this poem is for you. Crossing the Line is a tribute, a reflection, and a hope—for the soul of a country, and those still holding her hand. E.Z.
We crossed the line
like kids on a summer dare—
grinning through border booths
with Big Gulps and maps,
chasing freedom down the I-75
toward the Grand Canyon’s hush,
Vegas lights,
Disney dreams,
and outlet malls that sparkled
with red-white-and-blue discounts
for maple-hearted friends.
We crossed the line
to marvel, to mingle,
to share your stars
and sing your songs—
from Motown to The Monkees,
we danced the same beat,
played the same baseball,
shared the same lakes—
Great and wide and borderless
as our laughter.
And you crossed the line, too—
to see our northern lights,
stand at Niagara’s roar,
carve down Rockies
powdered like sugar dreams,
cheer hockey in barns and big arenas,
trade jazz and Joni,
feast on fiddle and fry bread.
You studied in our schools,
we laughed on your late-night shows—
a thousand acts of grace
crossing quietly, daily.
You met our kindness at Timmy’s,
our calm in a storm,
our comedy in the face of cold,
our language—
still kissed with snow.
We stood on guard,
not just for thee,
but for the dream
we both believed.
But now—
a new line is drawn.
Invisible.
Sharp.
Insidious.
A line not on any map,
but inside the minds
of men in suits and red hats
who speak of sovereignty
but forget solidarity.
A vote cast
that echoes like a warning shot
across the longest undefended border
in the world.
Yet still,
we cross another line—
south now,
toward Mexico’s sun,
toward mariachis and mangoes,
and the kindness of a people
who know how to dance
even when the world
is on fire.
And maybe that’s it.
The true crossing.
From fear to hope,
from walls to welcome,
from division to wholeness.
Maybe the final line
is not between us—
but within us.
And peace?
Peace is not some dream
waiting at the border.
It’s what we carry,
what we choose,
when we hold the line
for love.
But I still see her.
The soul of America—
tattered, trembling,
crying in her sleep.
I see her at the bus stop,
shoes worn thin,
holding a child
and a bag of unpaid bills.
I see her in hospitals
with closing wings,
where chemo is a luxury
and insulin comes
with a second mortgage.
I see her under rainbow flags
being legislated out of love,
in women’s clinics shuttered
by men who preach freedom
but fear a womb.
I see her in cages,
her children with foil blankets
and no mother’s arms.
Their lullabies swallowed
by policy.
And I weep.
Not with anger—
but with reverence
for what she was.
For every march,
every brave bus ride,
every song sung in Selma
and whispered in jail cells.
For the poets
who held her hand
while she bled.
She is not gone—
but she is gasping.
And we,
we who still cross the line
with hope in our hands,
must not turn away.
We must kneel beside her,
listen to her breath,
tell her stories back to her
until she remembers
who she is.
Because the soul of America
does not wear a red hat.
She wears scars.
She wears grace.
And she needs us now—
not to worship her,
but to witness her
as she is.
To hold the line
until she can rise again.
