For the asylum seekers.
For their children.
Don’t call it separation.
Not yolk cradled in sling of shell
as liquid slips away. Not stone
divided from lentil, ripe nectarine
sliding from pit, splinter
lifted from finger. Not the infant
exiting the body, slick with blood,
delivered across that ancient
border. Not the river of milk
leaving the breast, but the child’s mouth
torn from the river. Call it what it is.
Amputation. Dismemberment. Call it
the willful shattering of a dish—its surface
once whole and flawed as the moon,
shaped with tenderness, with care.
Call it rending. Even—if ever—
rejoined, the fragments
that shock, will hear that sound,
will retain those rifts in the clay.
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