Those we’ve left by the road still wander among us.

We lean on their diminished bodies as we move;

Talc-tasting air, burning of urine and hot stones,

singes our skins, shriveling our memories of them.

 

A whisper has passed: this road is closed to us.

This ditch of stubble will be our home for an hour,

a day, an eternity, until our fate again inhales,

forcing us up to walk, to endure this endless road.

 

Ahead, wavering green hills reject our pleas.

Their distant canopies’ chattering falls away,

falls to fear, as we gaze with one breath held.

Another stone is thrown to bloody our hearts.

 

My child on the sharp, hard rack of my hip

stares…..eyes passive as shimmering stones.

My child of bone in his withered flesh bag…..

clenches the one ragged wall of his home.

 

This was originally titled Refugees and was reproduced here with a few changes from a copy dated October, 2003