The child
at the border
cries
from the gas,
yes,
but also
from hearing
the mother’s
panicked voice
scream syllables
nobody
on the other side
understands,
this language of
itch
and pain
and desperation,
this language
of uncertain
tomorrows,
of whipcrack
yesterdays,
this language
practiced only
to beg for
life
of the men
no one can
see,
the men whose eyes
are covered with
dark masks.
The men
whose hearts are
covered
with Kevlar
and the butts of
dusty guns,
and none of this
the child
understands,
this child
who has found
no reason
to speak yet,
reason only
to weep.
If she could speak,
if she could shout
the crucial word
frontera,
would anyone
listen,
would anyone
reach
a hand across– an open hand?
Who
on the other side
would hear
buried in
her one-word hymn–
frontera
frontera–
a word
that means
the same thing
in two languages:
terror?
¿Terror?
–
Jo Angela Edwins lives in Florence, SC, where she teaches at Francis Marion University and serves as the poet laureate of the Pee Dee region of the state. She has published poems in various venues, recently in Amethyst Review, Willows Wept Review, and One Sentence Poems. Her chapbook Play was published in 2016. She loves cats, gardens, chocolate, and murder mysteries.
© 2022, Jo Angela Edwins
Halfway Down the Stairs 