On Immigration

I remember the first time I stepped out of a movie theatre

and the sun assaulted my eyes.

I could not move, nor would I have chosen to do so

until my pupils had adjusted and contracted to the light my body could accept.

It’s not my fault. It’s not my responsibility.

It’s not me. It’s not.

Repetition is our tendency to identify ourselves and minimize the burden of awarding significance to any person or event.

It’s not my fault. It’s not my responsibility.

It’s not me. It’s not.

How long can passivity be excused? What light

can explain that our comfort in the shady cove of middle-class America

was wrung from the injustices of the others, the intruders, the criminals.

How much resistance can our conscience endure? It’s not my fault. It’s not my responsibility. It’s not me. It’s not.

How this should read: It’s not my fault but it is my responsibility. It’s not me but it is.