She is no Lady who turns her back to her family to solicit strangers in the harbor. Who leaves her children like motherless exiles in time of need and promises strangers what her own charges lack.
Descend your pedestal and wade to shores your soles have never touched, wander among the people your eyes have never seen. Listen to the cries for mercy that your ears have never heard. We have here too the tired and poor in huddled masses yearning to breathe free. To breathe. Who cannot breathe.
Cast your lantern in the darkened corners where injustice lives and where blindness-feigning Justice lies. Where children are stopped, searched, cuffed, assaulted, detained. But only some. Where a ruler sprays with noxious fumes and rubber shells upon those who gather in peaceful assembly and where mysterious goons in darkened vans steal away dissenters who seem to cry with masked lips, “We’ll put down our signs when you put down your guns.”
T. Francis Curran lives in Westchester, NY.