1. The Boy’s Fear

I am ten years old and wide awake,
not with dreams, but dread—
of flashing lights that stalk the street,
of sudden knocks, of breathless bed.

I carry ID like a shield,
though I was born beneath this sky.
The whispers say they’re hunting
not the where, but the why.

My father’s laugh sounds like Peru,
my skin, a sunlit truth,
and every echo in the hallway
tells of raids, of rumors, proof—

proof we’re different, proof we’re prey.
My older brothers don’t play
beyond our block or stay
out past dusk—they know the way

that innocence can be erased
by a glance, a name, a place.
Even the pledge I say each day
feels like a lie, or worse—betrayal.

I don’t hate the man on TV
because I’m told to—
I hate him because he makes me fear
for the father I belong to.

2. The Mother’s Prayer

I am forty and wide awake,
not with dreams, but dread—
I held their hands when they were small,
taught them songs, packed their lunch,
promised this land was theirs, too,
told them their names held just as much

weight as any preacher or judge.
Now I check the locks each night,
and lie to keep them whole—
“No, mi amor, they won’t come to school.”

Though rumors twist through morning drop-off,
PTA texts come coded and clipped.
“Run if the vans slow down,” they say,
as if freedom’s a hallway slip.

I ache when I see them quiet,
my eldest flinch at sirens,
my youngest say he’d fight God
just to keep his father from vanishing.

He came believing in papers,
in oaths, in liberty’s hand.
But it’s faith I pray with now,
not laws, that guard this land.

3. The Father’s Oath

I am fifty-two and wide awake,
not with dreams, but dread—
They said I must earn it—so I did.
Test by test, pledge by pledge.
I came with hands full of hope
and built a life from nothing.

I loved their daughter. I learned their history.
I paid their taxes, stayed out of sight.
I stood beside the flag and meant it.
I cleaned their offices, worked through night.

Still, I carry proof of my belonging
in wallet, glovebox, phone,
because one error, one rumor,
and I vanish, alone.

I asked her once, “If they take me,
will you come?” She said, “Always.”
But her voice breaks now
as if I’m already gone.

This is the country I chose,
but some days I wonder:
has it ever chosen me back?

4. The Grandmother’s Reckoning

I am sixty-two and wide awake,
not with dreams, but dread—
Our roots run deep—Mayflower on one side,
Denmark on the other. We fled war for hope,
sailed seas with trembling hands,
only to become this—

my grandson hiding ID in his sock.
He wonders if presidents can hate him,
asks if liberty’s up for sale,
asks why it favors skin.

I watched him sleep as a baby,
held him close when he cried.
Now I watch him scan the sidewalk
for ICE, for flashing lights.

The pledge I once recited
feels like threadbare cloth.
I taught him of justice and dreams,
but never this kind of loss.

If this is what freedom has become,
it’s not the nation I once knew.
It’s not the promise I pledged to,
and yet—here we are.

5. The Statue’s Lament

I am centennial and thirty-one and wide awake,
not with dreams, but dread—
They lit my torch with hope,
called me Mother of Exiles,
etched their dreams on my base
and wept beneath my gaze.

“Give me your tired, your poor…”
they whispered. Believed.
Now the wind through my crown
carries only disbelief.

I watch children walk with papers,
citizens who tremble,
families still suspect
no matter what they’ve proven.

I was meant to greet, not guard.
To shine, not shackle.
Yet the ships no longer come—
just fear, and liberty’s crackle.

You who claim my name,
stand beside me again.
Not with closed fists,
but with open hands.

For until no child wakes at dawn
wondering if their father is gone,
or hates their skin for its shade or song,

I am no beacon,

only a hollow monument
to a promise undone.