He has heard the grown-ups talking
in hushed, hurried whispers.
Some of them are crying —
though he can’t tell
if they are sad, or scared, or happy.
it all looks the same now
his feet ache and the dirt
itches inside his shoes
hunger gnaws at him
be he’s learned to
ignore that, push the feeling
down, down into his legs
to help will them to move
he is not afraid of the dark
he is afraid of what’s out there
in the dark, behind, ahead,
all around, even in sleep
there are monsters in the desert
you be quiet, he listens,
mute day into mute night
he walks
the border doesn’t look like he imagined
he doesn’t even see Lady Liberty there
she could be hiding in the dark
maybe she is behind the fence
maybe she was swept away
maybe she did not have a raft
the Río Bravo del Norte
as hungry as ever
swallowing the ones
who forget to swim fast.
He wants to sit down.
He wants to take off his shoes.
He wants to sleep.
Instead —
in the scrub
face in the dirt
hide, quickly!
Shhhh! Shhhh!
The boy’s mother
is crying without sound,
eyes wide, gathering
moonlight.
Christina Ward 🍁🌲 is a poet and nature writer from North Carolina. Her work has been featured in the Cameo literary magazine, the Arrowhead literary magazine, Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine, and in Wolff Poetry Literary Magazine. She is currently working on her first poetry chapbook.
