The Long Arc

Poem a day for Lent 2026, #4

a measure of distances
much too long.
shoved toward a gate
that stays shut
in a push-pull.
your stranger-dignity
is a threat
to them.
you wait
for a signal in the noise.
a voice
above the chaotic whistles
to silence the mouths
behind the masks.
the old stories
are turning to dust;
the faint memory of forced migration—
the weight of clay ground
pulled from your feet.
we try to dust the residue
onto the shoulders of our children
as they search for a way
where there are none
to guide them.
no steady eye
to steer the path.