ON FATHER’S DAY, 2018
How do they sleep at night?
How do they sleep when they
Spend their days thinking up ways
To inflict cruelty upon those they must hate?
The wailing mother, her breast milk flowing down
Her blouse, her best blouse, her only blouse, her only
Reminder of what she’s left behind, all else left
In the night as she and her baby scrambled out of her house,
Leaving behind her husband, he who beat her and berated her
And treated her as less than human. But this, this
Perhaps she should have stayed. At least, there, her
Beloved child was in her arms.
How does she sleep at night?
The crying baby, inconsolable, the unfamiliar bottle with the
Strange fluid, not her mother, not the right smell, not the
Right taste and all of it is wrong, all of it terrifying, even for
One so young, so frail, enduring the late night scramble to safety,
The slogging through rivers, endless walking, the rough ride to
Safety, only to be wrenched from her mother,
Surrounded by strange uncaring people.
How does she sleep at night?
The weeping father, pulled from his son, his precious only son, he
Only trying to escape the violence, only trying to give his son the
Life promised on that statue, the statue not seen here in this hot, dry
Hellhole, but there she stood in the book he saw, tall and proud, with her
Promise of “Give me your tired, your poor…” He was all of that, and frightened,
But he did not want his son to see his fear. So he brought him north
Where he thought they would be safe. But now, this. Now this.
How does he sleep at night?
The president and the congressmen and the senators, full and fat , round and rich,
Their gilded towers and lush estates, surrounded by sycophants and staff leaping
To do their bidding, their air conditioned limousines and airplanes, their homes
Cool and comfortable, their children and grandchildren well and strong.
These men deciding that some people are animals, some
People are less-than-they, some people deserve to be terrorized in the name of..
In the name of…. In the name of…. They don’t know. They just know they’re going
To do it, and they’ll pull out their bibles and wave them from podiums and tell us
That it is written right there, in the good book, in the good book they have somehow
Distorted to support their hate and fear.
Their children, their grandchildren, their nieces, their nephews. How do they
Look them in the eye? How do they smile benevolently on this holiday, this Father’s Day,
Take in the accolades –“You’re a good Dad!”, “I love you Grampa!”
How do they do this over the cries of the children,
The wailing mothers
The weeping fathers.
The fear, the terror, the indignity
“..the wretched refuse yearning to breathe free…
Now incarcerated in their camps.
How do they sleep at night? May their nights be filled with the hell they have wrought.
And may it be so.
How do they sleep at night?
How do they sleep when they
Spend their days thinking up ways
To inflict cruelty upon those they must hate?
The wailing mother, her breast milk flowing down
Her blouse, her best blouse, her only blouse, her only
Reminder of what she’s left behind, all else left
In the night as she and her baby scrambled out of her house,
Leaving behind her husband, he who beat her and berated her
And treated her as less than human. But this, this
Perhaps she should have stayed. At least, there, her
Beloved child was in her arms.
How does she sleep at night?
The crying baby, inconsolable, the unfamiliar bottle with the
Strange fluid, not her mother, not the right smell, not the
Right taste and all of it is wrong, all of it terrifying, even for
One so young, so frail, enduring the late night scramble to safety,
The slogging through rivers, endless walking, the rough ride to
Safety, only to be wrenched from her mother,
Surrounded by strange uncaring people.
How does she sleep at night?
The weeping father, pulled from his son, his precious only son, he
Only trying to escape the violence, only trying to give his son the
Life promised on that statue, the statue not seen here in this hot, dry
Hellhole, but there she stood in the book he saw, tall and proud, with her
Promise of “Give me your tired, your poor…” He was all of that, and frightened,
But he did not want his son to see his fear. So he brought him north
Where he thought they would be safe. But now, this. Now this.
How does he sleep at night?
The president and the congressmen and the senators, full and fat , round and rich,
Their gilded towers and lush estates, surrounded by sycophants and staff leaping
To do their bidding, their air conditioned limousines and airplanes, their homes
Cool and comfortable, their children and grandchildren well and strong.
These men deciding that some people are animals, some
People are less-than-they, some people deserve to be terrorized in the name of..
In the name of…. In the name of…. They don’t know. They just know they’re going
To do it, and they’ll pull out their bibles and wave them from podiums and tell us
That it is written right there, in the good book, in the good book they have somehow
Distorted to support their hate and fear.
Their children, their grandchildren, their nieces, their nephews. How do they
Look them in the eye? How do they smile benevolently on this holiday, this Father’s Day,
Take in the accolades –“You’re a good Dad!”, “I love you Grampa!”
How do they do this over the cries of the children,
The wailing mothers
The weeping fathers.
The fear, the terror, the indignity
“..the wretched refuse yearning to breathe free…
Now incarcerated in their camps.
How do they sleep at night? May their nights be filled with the hell they have wrought.
And may it be so.
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