Lullaby, After You Left the Immigrant Shelter

I think of you again at the tail end
        of February, after the cage & the tent,

after the fever & the dream about the dream, after 60
        bunk beds in a room & 60 blurred faces

suspended in the dust of the desert,
        after the sleepless

winter & the recurring infection.
        I think of you

standing in this country
        of barbed wire, this country of copper, this

steeped hill you climbed to plant
        on it your dream. I want for you

your own bed in your private
        room in a house where your brother opens

his arms after the dream comes in shades
        of blue from the land of blue

with such longing for the trees
        you climbed

as a child, for your mother’s
        lips pressed to your forehead

for your father’s rugged palm cupping
        the back of your neck.