after a 2019 photo of a migrant detention center for males
No clock. No calendar. He sits in the past,
in the present, in a building
partitioned by tall, chain-link fencing.
His face lies hidden
in his hands, as if he hopes to thwart
the glaring lights, the lack of sky,
lack of space atop the concrete floor.
It hurts to sleep, to dream,
to wake—again, his blistered feet,
his shoes of tape, his thoughts
about his bride-to-be, how he left her
back home in the fear,
her voice, her touch—left for good?
Love, too, sits caged now,
its ghostly shape boxed in, blocked out,
like his thirst and hunger,
like the smiling boy he used to be.
No one asks if he understands
the law, the form he quickly signed,
his life—flimsy paper.