Contemplations on the barrier between the U.S. and Mexico required by the Real I.D.
by Sara Campos
You sit in the patio at the Auberge
overlooking trees with ripening olives and
vineyards with plump grapes ready to burst
underneath a powder blue sky.
You sip wine and dine on
fresh arugula leaves and heirloom tomatoes
drizzled with champagne vinagrette.
I stand in the kitchen,
pour scalding water on your plate.
Later I’ll press your sheets and stretch them across your
King-sized bed.
I shuck my skin, pluck out my liver
and sever my hands
for you to auction
to the highest bidder and
triple the profit for your portfolio
You want to build a cerda
preventing me from entering your land
Minutemen search me
hurling stones and epithets
as though I had
raped one of your daughters
But I ask you
if you had seen the face of my child
screaming hunger from her eyes
her chapped lips no longer moving
Would you not come?
Would you not scale a 50’ wall?
dodge thousands of bullets
risking every bone
to bring her back to life?
Or if you say you believe all those
values Americanos written in
books I cannot read
if it were shred, lost or violated as
in Rwanda, Croatia or El Mozote
would you not run across before they
searched you out
to cut off your tongue?
Would you lie still
accepting your fate
like a piece of meat to be swallowed?
Would you not want what I want?
Would you not do the same as I?
Sara Campos is an immigration lawyer who writes poetry and fiction. She has published op-ed pieces in the San Francisco Examiner, The San Francisco Daily Journal, and The Recorder. Her fiction has appeared in LongStoryShort and her poetry has appeared in Penwomanship. She has also written book reviews for www.Waterbridgereviews.org and www.BeyondChron.org.
