Poetry
Rico was crying.
I felt like crying too, but I held it.
I thought of my Dad paddling me.
“Boys don’t cry,” he’d yelled.
Such a weak child at 8, bafflingly.
~
The zip ties hurt. Too tight.
The Mask pushed us to the curb.
We leaned on each other’s might.
Mask had a walkie-talkie:
“Two for pick-up.” The Word.
~
Some vehicle would take us.
But where? A prison? A plane?
The Mask told us to smile.
Rico couldn’t; the Mask kicked him.
“I wanna see you smile!” Ticked.
~
Rico looked at me.
I smiled at Rico and nodded.
He forced his teeth to show.
“Yah should be happy,
Yah got ta ‘njoy ‘merica!
Not no mo’, not no mo’.”
~
The Mask stood behind.
We felt the wet on our backs.
Piss smell was foul: “Be glad
Ain’t on your face, Relax!”
~
A black truck braked.
Inside we saw so many.
How would we fit?
The Mask pushed Rico in
And me on top of him.
The door slammed.
“You boys stink!” a woman said
To my back, under us crammed.
~
Rico started to cry.
“Jesus, can you tell us why?”
This time, I did too.
“Dad, where are you?”
This poem was included in the “ICE OUT!” anthology, published in March 2026 by The Moonstone Press 110A South 13th Street, Philadelphia, pa 19107 (www.moonstoneartscenter.com)
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