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 —
safe
but useless in their sun

————————————–

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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s