By Gabriella Femia
Tiny fists crush aluminum foil into a miniature planet,
Mommy and Daddy work together to mold your universe.
A yellow truck glides to a halt in front of you and Mommy,
your tiny, pink palm clutches onto your make-shift solar-system,
and she delicately places a brown bag in your other hand,
“Mijo, tiene cuidado”, “Be Careful”,
you giggle wildly and push her away.
Bright red sneakers, tied-tightly dangle precariously,
as you shriek and bellow from the tippy-top,
of your kingdom, the sparkling monkey bars.
You’re safe under a fortress of multi-colored blankets,
your best friend pokes you in the ribs to wake you up,
The bell rings, you go home.
The aluminum foil carefully crafted to create your tiny, beautiful universe,
crushed and stomped-out into a blanket to sleep beneath.
Big white buses, “U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement”,
screech cruelly to a halt as children beside you scream for their families.
You see Mommy and Daddy handcuffed, dragged away.
“Mijo, tiene cuidado”, “Be Careful”
they scream, cheeks flushed as tears rush down them.
The shoelaces of your bright red sneakers dangle dangerously,
as you climb down the steep steps of the bus.
Daddy was supposed to teach you how to tie them.
You’re ushered and prodded into a chain-linked room,
an elbow is jammed into the side where your ribs rest,
the little girl next to you is yelping.
You’re afraid and confused in a fortress of cages.
What is home?
Poet Gabriella Femia was raised in Long Island, New York and currently resides in Charlotte, North Carolina. She obtained a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology with a minor in Creative
Writing, focusing on poetry, from Roger Williams University. She is currently contracted as a poet for Avent Law Firm, where she writes poems centered on the topic of immigration. Her work also focuses on the lives of others as well as her own personal life experiences. She hopes that her poetry can impact others in a way that makes them re-evaluate their own perspective and biases.