The Maynard
Fall 2018

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If You See Something, Say Something

I pick up my mail down the street from an ICE raid,
hamboning myself for title, proof of ownership
passport, license. The sky began hailing handcuffs
& zip-ties, unlocked chains made easy for self-service.
I prayed like a sprinkler, my back drizzling every God with blood.

I open my mailbox downwind from an ICE house.
It resembles an overstuffed bird cage sweating feathers.
The house leaks, windows spitting long knots of people.
Children rap the Patteroller chant while hopscotching.
My box weeps smeared postcards, prayers returned to sender.

I open my ICE box downhill from a cage of zombie birds—
It rattles with weeping mothers under siege by evil spirits
snatching children out of families easy as pick-
pockets. They plead my help but I'm dead already.

I open an extinct bird downtown from a male raid.
Its corpse whistles ancient worksongs when squeezed,
while its chest spills continents of the undocumented.
I scream stop but ICE chips spew from my throat
only to quickly roll away, feeling threatened

I open my mailbox downstairs from a chorus of ICE'd birds
in a prayer vigil around a child lying in the street, near
extinction. It is as if he'd fallen from space and landed here,
leaking meteors. A speed-bump suicide. I turn him over & he asks:
What color am I? I don't have the heart to tell him.