- 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.