Fleeting fades the, aye, I confess, my sense
(much more the [again, I confess, my] heart’s-clutch) of care
for the suffer’d, the victimized,
the hordes of the heartbroken fleeing violence-torn pasts,
sorely, sorrowfully daily made present,
who gather at, clamor at (and cross) the, our, my border.
For who are they to suppose, presuppose
that they have a right, e’en a native, natural intent
to violate this place, this sovereign space I call mine own
(Where I was born! Where I belong!)?
I ask e’en tho’ I believe, I know
that some (many? still many? too many?) are those who
(dare they admit, if not aloud, then to themselves),
because of mine ancestors,
many of whom, in chains, landed on this land,
would deny my born-thus-belonging right to call this earthen plot, America, home.
Yet I say to myself, “It is that, isn’t it?”
Yes, it is that, my sense,
of what it is to be an orphan,
made to feel…to be less-than
that sharpens my soul’s sense of care
for any, for all who suffer
where’er they are
and, thus, who come here.