The Separation

In my country, gangs of fiends own the night. In my country, we lived broken lives of torment. My family fled with little but our naked terror. Bleeding and blistered, our feet carried us hundreds of miles. But I always had my familia. We migrated in trucks, never sure we could trust coyotes. We roamed scorching desert, never sure we would find food or water. Sometimes we waited until nightfall, hidden from view. We were nocturnal prey on winding dirt roads, never sure if we would be killed. But I always had my familia. Our bellies choking from hunger, our desolate depletion, the final forces delivering us to the border. So distant my country, so remote in this unearthly place where we were captured by armed strangers, where we were divided by strangers. Today, I no longer have my familia. This day is glass shattering and the shards cut me open like a skinned rat. Today I am that bawling baby paralyzed by panic. Today I am that shrieking child trembling in terror. Today I am that adolescent crowded in a cage. Today I am that tortured toddler crying himself to sleep. Published: Dissident Voice 11/8/20