Wrapped in the blanket azul of her birth,
the little girl spells inmigrante beside inmate
with a stick in the dirt on the border
between cage and patrolman earth.
Donde es mi Mama and where is my sleep takes a line
below the border, but the guard will kick dog dust at her words,
shove dust through the fence teeth, stamp out the rise
of a little voice and the loss will compel her to cry
and sleep with the shivering hills of motherless bodies
wrapped in blankets of their birth.
Mama said stay with me en tu corazon.
The little girl reaches her fingers through holes in the fence
and gathers shards of beer bottle glass and trashed cigarettes
the guards spit and leave. She spells inmigrante beside inmate
and Mama en mi corazon and hides and reads her first poetry each night
beneath her blanket azul and all the boots and dog dust in the world
could not take her words away, could not drag her words away,
could not make her forget. When she is old, she dreams,
she will sing them while her husband plays la guitarra
and the children will know:
Inmigrantes son inmates here, donde es mi Mama and my bed? Where is my sleep?
I am sad, Mama me dijo stay with me en tu corazon. I am afraid and alone.
But I will pull my blanket close and stay warm. I will pull my blanket close and stay warm.