I watch them climb the wall,
stumble over tarnished coils               
under hills scorched in dry heat,
shriveled up like stone. I remember 
I jumped a barbed wire fence —
ropes of bristling spikes nailed 
against the bark of a tree ―
and found a small wooden cross 
tilting on the highway shoulder. 
I know the body was not shipped 
back to the family, given a funeral, 
news never reached the father 
before he wandered the border towns
seeking his son, his wife 
covering her face with an apron.
The small screen flickers, displays 
twenty men shackled, single-file
boarding a bus at daylight.
I often wonder about the father
too exhausted to sleep, scuffing
for miles, his journey erratic
as if he does not want to arrive,
the earth below his feet raspy 
like ashes. The line stretches 
across countries, the entire
length of the continent, always 
pulling me to the hour I crossed 
the border like a full moon 
that rises over rooftops, 
my back wet, the blades of the chopper
blasting wind & falling rain.