They take the tender part of you,
in his T shirt and flip flops, confused.
That it’s not you,
shoved, with slurs, trying to stay standing.
The ligament between your hearts,
handcuffed among guns and face shields.
That little tearing sound as when puling a weed,
herded out into the street.
Irreversible loss, a death,
gazing into the cave of the van door.
Your hope, with those questioning eyes,
stuffed into the van.
That everything will be all right
off to a concentration camp somewhere.
Who, exactly, needs first
to stop what they’re doing?
Every time you are taken
you have less to lose.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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