Gaman

It was night when the buses stopped.
It was too dark to see the road,

or if there was a road. So we waited.
We watched. We thought of back home,

how the orchards would swell with fruit,
how the trees would strain, then give way

under their ripe weight. The pockmarked
moon the face of an apple, pitted

with rot. But of course not. Someone
would intervene, would make of our absence

a profit. When we came, the boat, anchored
at San Francisco Bay, swayed for hours . . .

the gauntlet of uniformed men so intent
on finding cause to turn us away. And now

again, we wait. We watch. Our American children
press against us with their small backs.

Which gives us pause. For the sake of the children,
we'll teach them to forgive the fears of others,

the offenses. But what we don't anticipate
is how the dust of the desert will clot our throats,

how much fear will conspire to keep us silent.
And how our children will read this silence

as shame. However much we tried, we thought,
to demonstrate grace. When the buses stopped,

it was too dark to see the road. Or if there was a road.
It was night. And instead of speaking, we waited.

Instead of speaking, we watched.