you were like an infant
coming from comforted darkness
into an array of wailing fresh light.
Mama has always given herself up
to send you forth
into the harshness of thought,
grow your legs
from the moist clay of the Earth,
open your mouth
to echo the sorrows of visible truth.
When you find this sweet country home,
you will find life, growing up and growing old
in the confines of honest exchange
in the textures of embrace
in the borders regardless of need.
Rests in you is barren forgiveness
in its most eloquent form.
Pity what we have lost to these huddled men
more than our country
progress in its infancy—
recognition of the dark, indignant past
we have ignored for too long.
There is no returning home, or so it seems
when the possibility of one another is lost
this is my nation at war, grappling with its own humanity
silent at a time when people will soon lose their ability to speak.