We need to embrace immigrants’ stories, not just because most Americans’ ancestors were immigrants, but also because these stories are beautiful human stories that deserve our consideration beyond what may bombard us
daily in news headlines.–Ingrid
Sometimes I imagine a whole family
living in my master bedroom.
They’ve been driven out of the camp in Calais
or found their way here
from a muddy site in Macedonia.
They’re overjoyed with the faucets,
and wood that used to be my bookshelf
now feeds an open fire
where women sit, stirring stew, chatting
as they once did in their own kitchens.
On my bed small children are curled up, asleep,
and at my desk in the corner,
older children turn my worn jeans
into makeshift shoes.
In spite of the new visitors, my family
still sleeps in beds, walks clean floors,
eats in a well-stocked kitchen
until we are all satisfied.
I peer into my master bathroom
just in time to see a boy
who looks older than his eight years
perched on the counter in front of the mirror,
his lips in a gap-toothed smile.
His hands are at work
on a loose tooth,
one he will nestle in the heart
of his palm, shaken, torn
having survived a journey
halfway around the world.
Big heart in this poem, our only stability. Being a local nowadays is to be a potential refugee from corporate turmoil. And it’s always so close. This poem calms the jumpiness. Thank you.
I love the metaphor of the loose tooth for this boy, also torn from his setting. Then, too, there is the universality of children his age losing teeth, proud of growing up. Nicely done!