The Separation

In my country, gangs of fiends own the night.
In my country, we lived broken lives of torment.
My family fled with little but our naked terror.
Bleeding and blistered, our feet carried us hundreds of miles.
But I always had my familia.

We migrated in trucks, never sure
we could trust coyotes.
We roamed scorching desert, never
sure we would find food or water.
Sometimes we waited until nightfall, hidden from view.
We were nocturnal prey on winding dirt roads,
never sure if we would be killed.
But I always had my familia.

Our bellies choking from hunger,
our desolate depletion, the final forces
delivering us to the border.
So distant my country, so remote in this
unearthly place where we were captured by
armed strangers, where we were divided by
strangers.

Today, I no longer have my familia.
This day is glass shattering and the shards
cut me open like a skinned rat.

Today I am that bawling baby paralyzed
by panic.

Today I am that shrieking child trembling
in terror.

Today I am that adolescent crowded
in a cage.

Today I am that tortured toddler
crying himself to sleep.

The poetry of Thomas Wells has recently appeared in The Opiate Magazine, The Magnolia Review and Tuck Magazine. He also recently placed second in a Poetrysoup rhyming poetry contest. Over the decades, his poems have appeared in numerous small press magazines. He also published a chapbook in 1982 titled "Native Steel" through Black Buzzard Press. Read other articles by Thomas.