The Frantic Invisible Night

They’ve separated 2,000 children.No, they’ve discarded themLike cans of Coca-Cola,2,000 children who reached our shoreLike sea foam, salty, crying salt,A parade of families marching for asylum,Tangled in the seaweed of fear,2,000 children taken awayBecause the border is where,Like a maternity ward,Ideology meets blood.

They care for fetuses but not brown babiesDead of dehydrationOr hysterical, crying Mama, Papa,They destroy the water jugsScattered like leaking life raftsIn the desert oceanThat stretches from TijuanaTo the District of Columbia,And the brown children's’ facesBriefly light up in the lightOf the Cities on the HillBefore they disappearInto a frantic invisible night.

On Ellis Island, they changed namesTo make it easier to pronounce them—Mine was Pozniak, now it’s Posner,Yes, much easier, much neater—At least we pronounced them,What are the names of these children?No child is nameless, no child illegal!

They’ve stolen the honey of childrenTo manufacture their diabetic propaganda:The soda-can-American-Dream!

See, America is the land that without ironySells cigarettes and Nicotine gumAnd diet pills and Coca-ColaSide-by-side at the checkout counter:What becomes of a people immune to irony?

Ah, but they don’t mindThe children when they grow up,Gardeners, nannies, cooks, field hands, factory workers,Nor do they mind 2,000 childrenLocked in cages, barcoded,Scanned like sodaSold for a profit at Walmart.

I mind.My grandfather wasSent to the GulagFor being Jewish,My relativesGassed to death:How is this not the startOf a Star-Spangled Holocaust?

Listen, listen, listen.Lady Liberty’s torch, once doused,Will not with ease re-ignite.Already she vomits,Her dress is covered in vomit,Her arm grows weary,The waters creep up her torsoLike a rising tide of vipers,But still the light burns,Still the light lights upThe frantic invisible night.

Somewhere 2,000 childrenCower in desolation,Mothers and fathersSob like exploding starsWailing comet-tears for all to see.

And I too wail, I too am franticBecause in the night things happen that neither historyNor our children will or can or shouldForgive.