I am sorry I cannot hold you. I am sorry I cannot wipe your tears of terror from your tiny face, nor lift you into my arms. No, mama. No papa. I stole them away from you, don’t cry masita. I steal everything. Even the land I stand on now is stolen from your brothers and your sisters. It is winter in summer on the border of insanity. I can only step over your tiny bundled bodies with my big thick black boots as you lay on the ground like perros, like dogs, no...I take that back, we treat dogs better. We even have dog bakeries and doggy motels. Did you know? You are a mere bump in the road and no more, just like that strange black fruit swinging from the poplar trees in the deep south. So many babies laying side by side like in the maternity ward, but on the dirt after being kidnapped by capitalism
They are forced to stare up into the icy night skies and glistening stars and the desert burning inferno of a napalm sun. Eh, I saw your brother Elan tossing rocks at our 30 ft. wall. He was trying to kill me! So, I put down my cellphone, my latte and laptop and aimed at his back. 16 shots! Sorry he died. Shouldn’t have thrown rocks. It’s the law. I am sorry, I don’t have soap for you, although every single market, house, hotel and motel has soap, even the homeless shelter and animal shelter, where the strays of society seek refuge and a good meal, medicine and bed, have soap. But no, I don’t have soap for you. Lick the soup you spilled off the floor and drink from the toilet, perro. Now, shut up if your sister bleeds. The little perra is not our problemo, comprende? I am sorry, I don’t have toothpaste for you. Wipe your snot nose on the border patrol’s pant leg and listen carefully. Our store shelves are fully stocked with toothpaste. Every house and home has toothpaste. Even motels and hotels on the highways and byways have toothpaste for free, but none for you. We cannot afford you, unless you work the crop fields, then, maybe.
They say poets rummage trash to find precious stones of wisdom. They say all the stones of the Aztec Empire would not be enough to build this wall of misfortune. Please, stop your sobbing. Sorry but, we keep what we steal. Now, make way for Jesus (on his South American vacation) as he steps over your fragile bodies. He must show his American passport to the Border Patrol so he does not end up in a cage like your brothers and sisters did with foil paper blankets and an empty stomach. It’s the law. I’m sorry.