What Migrants Leave Behind

Published in the On Gaia Literary Magazine.

Content warning: reference of SA

They keep the objects collected in plastic bags.
A museum of dead things, a compilation of objects
used to sustain life where life is no longer. Forced
to leave home, what do you decide to take?

           A comb, a jackknife, a religious medal
            A pen, a Boston Red Sox cap

The owners are long gone—starved, exhausted,
dying in the desert of sunstroke or dehydration,
separated from their children, alone, afraid:
Leaving only their artifacts behind.

            A photograph, a ring, a broken watch
            A shoe, the sole peeling off

There’s a word someone carved into a tree:
America, it says, written by a person who still
had faith and hope in “welcome to a better
life” where roving gangs don’t rape your
sister, burn your home, kill your livestock.

           A toothbrush, a baby’s bottle, a hairclip
            A rosary, a love letter, a dirty sock

Leaving takes every bit of strength you have—
easy to think it’s better, perhaps, to live with
the devil you know. And what is asylum,
really? You don’t have to disagree with a régime
to need protection from it.            

           An empty tequila bottle, a Bible, a coin
            A change-purse, a child’s backpack

And they all say:

Once, we were here. Once, we believed.
We had lives, and loves, and laundry
just like you do.
                                                Only now we don’t.