The white man brought me into this cage,

left Mamá on the outside. Handed me mothball

and chemical soaked blankets, carelessly wrapping

my shoulders in their weakness. Spoke his language

into my ears, “Be quiet.” The blanket’s ends torn,

shoeprints pressed into their yarn; hand-me-downs

from white children tucked into bed by white mothers.

Mamá stands next to a white woman with stern eyes.

Salt tears crystallize against my mother’s brown cheeks.

Hair frayed like the blanket beneath me, lips crusted dry

from lack of water. Handcuffs dent her veins, hang gently

beneath the broken zipper of her jeans.

The warehouse fills with silent screams chilling
the frigid air.

Children’s cries muffle in their stomachs, heavy breaths

echoing throughout the icy walls. Our Spanish rattles
cage doors,

guards ignore our words, “We cannot understand you,
speak as we do.”  

Break locks with libertad and quiero mi mamá

their metal skeletons only respond to English.

I sit, hands clutched like my mother’s in her handcuffs,

pray. I pray to Dios; he wants us home. He has sweet

papayas to warm us from this ice box, soothe our
contracting muscles.

Dios said never trust the white man.

The woman guard tugs my mother’s shirt, nods her head

toward me. Mamá walks up to the metal gate between us,

her eyes speak the same words as Dios.

Todo estará bien pronto mi bebé.