transit: a poem

“Caminante, no hay puentes, se hace puentes al andar.”*

~ Gloria Anzaldúa


america is full
of ancient children who spit
their cage-earned cough
on our meticulous brick sidewalks,
who hug the legs of strangers,
who make foreigners of us
by smiles we have not earned
and brown eyes we cannot read

and I stand dumb and captive,
I do not speak their language,
I am helpless as an anchor
on land —
but useless in their sun


*”Voyager, there are no bridges, one builds them as one walks.”

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