Separated; 5,446 Children in Confinement, and Counting
You’re scared. Papa wasn’t
a word you said since he
ran up to America a month
before your seventh birthday.
He promised to come back
one day, you saw him in his
monthly payments sent to
an address in Honduras,
but yesterday was your twelfth
and you couldn’t help but call
for him because even Ma
didn’t come to save you after
spending weeks inside a cage.
As the sun rose you ignored it,
and the only reason you knew
it’s morning was because the
guard in black wearing a bullet-
proof vest yelled at the fourteen
other children in a fear inducing
language you only heard while
watching tv. Some of them still
tried to hide from the weight
of never-ending promise under
their too-thin blankets, cried
for their Madres and Padres
since the day they were brought
inside the one-way entrance
and no-exit warehouse.
There was nothing sanctuary
about here. You knew it was noon
since you walked with the sleepless
kids who tried to see if the dust-dry
rice and the forgotten-to-be-boiled
chicken noodle soup was anything
remotely close to what abuela’s
barbacoa was on a day she forgot
to add garlic, but you wondered if
you’ll even get enough food.
You’ve never saw a playground
that looked like this, and that’s
because this playground had
concrete as its dirt floor, bodies
and piss buckets instead of swings
that made you fly, and cages that
replaced a jungle gym you can
climb if you wanted to risk being
shouted or shot at. The floor isn’t lava,
the people were. Armed with weapons
meant for war, you never looked
up high enough to see the faces that
wanted to wage war against children.
After years or maybe just a night
past by, two joined with screams
that were all too familiar. One
of the kids left on a stretcher
just a day or month ago, but you
all knew she wasn’t going home.
Some of the sleepless went to
Console in a morbid hybrid of
forgotten Spanish and English
you’ve only heard from the black-
vested guard’s voice. Others like you
knew the comfort of home was gone.
The thought of outside was as foreign
as the home you sat and watched tv in.
Maybe one day you’ll get to ask your
birther why she let you go through
this? With the windows so high up
the sun’s rays never lowered itself
enough to prove to you it was there,
and you gave up on ever feeling light
hold you tighter than any mother’s hug.
Her image faded and all you can see
was a pathetic face that didn't come
to save you sooner. You thought of the
words, I hate her, and that’s all you
could believe. Even when finally told
that your mother was there for you,
you look up and all you can think
was to wage war on this person, you say
you don't recognize her and that was
enough to destroy her. You’d rather be
back in the cage, and you want nothing
more than what was taken from you.
What was it that was taken from you?
