Fed by the brazen gift of drought’s famine,
Her tongue tasting language after language

Here at our search-burned landfill of garbage,
A migrant woman scrounges for samplings

That might fill her children’s insides. Scavenge,
Mother of Exiles, on your paltry stage.

You play the part of a human bandage
On a body that will not stop bleeding.

She says: “Storied landlords, open your doors
To us, the roofless. We’ve hidden in swarms

To escape the dread masters of horror,
The lead-teeming automatic arms

You profit from. Welcome us, the deplored.
We stand at the landing of your golden dorm.”