The Politician. And. The Refugee.

On the day the shutters closed you had eyes that yelled help me.

The radio that’s always tuned to that station that blames the cut for bleeding rather than the hand that cut it…

The politician and the refugee.

Because it’s not US intervention, greed and manipulation that devoured

these feet dragging streets

got the buildings in a cold sweat

and the atmosphere grinding its teeth.

Our hypothetical fear supersedes yours anyways.

Here’s a wall. Here’s the border. Now go the fuck away.

The criminal wasn’t the one breaking invisible lines messily.

It’s the politician who sat restlessly while a million hands snatched desperately

into ocean waters lapping over the head of a Syrian baby.

But Geography doesn’t dictate MY humanity.

Whether the baby is in front of me or thousands of miles away at sea.

Her mother is dead its ok.

Her father is dead its ok.

She is dead and now its ok to go ahead and call YOU the refugee- displaced from your own empathy.

YOU are stateless and waiting in the refugee camp inside your own head.

In this corner! The fascist. In the other you and I.

This land where a desperate scream is not as loud as the smug sigh.

You’re stuck on repeat that the trojan horse is the refugee?

No. It’s when you can’t tell the police from the military.

When kkk trades in white sheets for blue uniforms.

THAT’S infiltration…

not when a Syrian orphan shows up weary at the castle doors of the same nation that took her parents, wrecked her land- empowered her terrorists and then branded HER the problem!

The time between bombs is the quiet needed for gut wrenching screaming

because she can’t remember every wrinkle in his face when he cried out

just before that explosion took him.

The politician and the refugee.

who asks, don’t they know that eyes don’t shut like doors closing.

They relent like hands holding the wrists of the seen.

And that mouths oval with bombs don’t slacken weakly.

They cradle heavy with screams

and that feet don’t lose their memory.

They recall every drumbeat smacking toward a ground not heavy with their country’s final breath.

The politician and the refugee.

One so easily damning. The other so easily damned.

In this country borders don’t close like doors.

They are slammed.