"Wet Feet" (7-Minute NaPoWriMo Poem for April 18)

Wet Feet




You married a wetback,
my mother would say. Remembering that
startles the migrant starlings into battle
against the annihilation of autumns past.

In a hurricane season they come, hands
that know how to pick up sticks, legs
that remember the walk. Perhaps empathy
has played out her part. Maybe the vast breadbasket
of summer revved the tornado over Wichita's heart.

What we remember remembers us, these threats
of delay and departure, that stalling at the altar, that settling
at the table of despair. Where is the medicine
for the condition of injustice? What line
do I sign the treaty that gets you off --

the boot at the neck, the hand on the pistol,
the wretched signature of discovery and compiling interest?
I take this as I am: a country of error,
a willing sacrifice, repair.




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written in 7 minutes for National Poetry Writing Month for April 18

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