Migrant

Her father drew a happy face across the sun, so when record drought foiled acres of harvest, she did not take it personally. There is nowhere to migrate, but hoards of gaunt faces make a procession to a distant mirage. The mosquitos mix our blood. My disease is now your disease. Pass the shovel to the right and save your solemn glances for the upcoming days. In two more miles, we become trespassers. Our company will reconvene with the main crowd in four hours. We do not have flowers to mark shallow resting plots. It hardly matters. The vultures do not need garnish with their meal. One more mile to go, and our desperation will become a lively debate in air-conditioned rooms with endless catering. If the grandmothers can no longer walk, you must show them your arms full of children. They will sit, and when the viper coils, offer no warning. It is possible to sweat out your humanity. Moisture has retreated from the spread of calloused skin. We are a loving people, but hunger turns the things of kindness into a lottery draw. How many calories can one be deprived before ethics turn into grammatical error? Judging by the barbed wire and high fences, it seems we will find out in short order. The men in sunglass brandishing handguns don't speak our language. Do not act in a way that presents a threat. Rather, imitate the sun so they don't take our arrival personally.