there are women
whose arms are empty
and whose breasts
keep filling with milk
for babies who have been taken away.
somewhere in america,
there are box stores,
warehousing not goods,
but evil:
thousands of children in cages,
hot tents in the desert
filled with kids whose parents
have been locked up
for existing, for dreaming,
for daring to survive.
they crossed a line
and they will pay.
somewhere in america,
prisons pop up
like poisonous mushrooms
as people shrug and look away.
somewhere in america,
there are people who
profit from this,
money flowing
as the tears flow,
a bitter river.
somewhere in america,
corruption continues
to bubble and seep,
the only trickle-down that works,
a sickly tar
paving our way to hell.
somewhere in america,
in a congressional closet
they coat-check their souls
and collect their pay,
lining their pockets
as democracy dies
and children cry,
and i say to anyone
who will listen:
we have crossed a line.
