Colossal Woman

You’re tired

Hands raw from corrosive soap, children pulling at your hem, baby up every four hours, an ache so deep in the bones that a solid night’s sleep won’t make a dent

You’re poor

Too many mouths, baby birds all, with nothing left after rent and hydro and heat to buy bread, another night at the drive-thru narrated by screams of deep-fried delight

You’re the huddled masses

Bodies keeping each other warm, hands scratching backs, braiding hair, wiping runny noses, hurrying to the frozen midwinter bus stop, holding hands so none get lost

You’re yearning to breathe free

The air thick with smoke, granddaddy’s cigarillo, car exhaust, greyblack snow blocking driveways, cars on cinderblocks, two puffs twice a day of the asthma inhaler

You are not brazen giants

Your limbs do not conquer, but shake in the wind, bowing to outside forces, cowering before armies, bending at the knee, kneeling on the asphalt, hands up, don’t shoot

You, mother of exiles,

Tending to skinned knees, kissing boo-boos, wrap your shawl tighter around you, turn your face, take the hit, cover the bruises with foundation, show no cracks, let in no water

To you, they shout, “go home!”

Unwanted, your prayers the wrong kind of prayers, your skin the wrong kind of skin, your tiredness the wrong kind of tired, your poverty the wrong kind of poor, closed gates

You will be welcome

The sea-washed, sunset gates, lit with torches, pearly white, gleaming gold, will open for you with the lightest touch, admit your poor, tired body inside: they will not hold you back.