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.