God the Mother Speaks of Xenia

Abstract

I AM the children sleeping under mylar in a Texas warehouse.I AM the fathers lifting toddlers to their shoulders on our journeyto safety and rest. I'm safety and rest. But I'm mostly the motherswho'd rather not lug the heavy memory of the twelve-year-old boycut to fit in a sack, ditched on the neighbor's steps. I hold his ghost hand,a pale flower. Some call us vermin, an infestation. We're waitingfor recognition's spark, milk of kindness, hoping for something to hope.Even a goddess like me needs birds to perch in the soul. Even Irequire feathers, the tune that never stops. Don't look for me in the guards,or their guns. I'm not in the false borders, the fenced miles or razor wire.Haven't I taught you better? Even the body arrives by crossingover. Sperm into egg. Then uterine guestroom. Then cervical gate.Each life a light-chip, hard & bright, I slip into like second skin. So,I will walk with, as, in them. My names rhyme with exile & asylum.I wear boots, steel-toed. I wear running shoes. I wear these cracked, bloody soles.