There is still a river, that makes glad the nations
A river wider than the Rio Grande
Where daughters swim in the arms of their fathers
Not from shores of violence to sands of vitriol;
But between banks of delight, where a picnic lunch awaits.

Her arms draped around his shoulder
Like my toddler holds her dolls.
Those muddy currents unrelenting—
O my God, don’t you care if they drown;
Are you dozing in the stern of this madness?
Or are you too in a cage, sleeping under an aluminum blanket?

Separated.
Maybe it’s us who lost our father, not them.

In that brown, murky water
Where a father desperately, hopelessly tried to save his daughter
You still whisper, “Peace, be still.”
And in their stillness, you still scream—
Don’t you care if they drown?

Separated.
Maybe it’s us who lost our father, not them.