Friday, February 28, 2020

Babies without borders

My own cold mother tried to deport me 
ten minutes after I came out of her. 
There I was, a puckish little preemie, 
and she just wanted to see my papers. 

(It takes a baby, a refugee right off the bat, 
to feel the crock of shit meanness of borders 
and border rules. Not that as a baby I was 
already cursing like a little sailor, or really 
knew the phrase crock of shit. Still ... ) 

Still ... now, as then—I'm proud of what even 
my best friends might call an “illegal” quality.

Ice melts, too, you know. You bet your preemie ass. 

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