Fields are black, homes propped-up—
barely grey–and skies red
where you come from.
Sun is no joke there
laying its beams
like eggs
on backs
and skulls
to hatch
beads of sweat
that ripple down ribs.  

Where you come from
dictators order scarlet
with which to paint streets
as if they were ordering
the rich color for their living rooms.
Masked men shoot people down
just a few houses away
from where children dance
around rainbow-and-rock-
strewn streams
in alleys.  

And where you come from
women cannot get help
for black eyes
or broken ribs
and the grave begins
to seem like a safe
harbor.  

Border should be a beacon
summoning you—the poor,
the suffering, the brave.
Shelter should await you
and your children. 
Yet large grey buildings
house you in one place
and your children
in another—no one
holds them at night.
And you are charged
with being less than human
for being human
for doing what any of us
would do.  

Oil-colored fields surround the Wal-Mart
where children pine for mothers
and fathers and a kind touch.
Night is no joke there
laying its dreams
like eggs
in minds
and hearts
to hatch
into writhing terrors
delighted at having found their haven.