Tears swell along Rio Tijuana’s littered banks
strewn with detritus and dreams beyond it’s shore,
for a Liberty whose arms no longer open
to the tired, the hungry, the huddled masses.
A Nation’s soul sours in fear’s ferment
behind a wall built of block and iron
that became our prison.
We cannot countenance a God
who beholds no borders but holds to himself
the child in a mother’s embrace,
and weeps over the world that
rips him from her arms in law’s cold precision,
as if He has forgotten Maria’s breast that held Him near,
and does not cherish the blessed moment
when humanity first cradled Him
in the hope that on some distant day
they might learn to hold each other.
© Jedidiah Paschall