My Country’s Shame

The shame falls on me like showers of hail,

it drums on my burdened head. And I want

it to help me shed my skin and bury me but-

Would I be a whitened sepulchre? Faceless

with my nation’s baseless and graceless way

of torturing small children by turning them

back, rejecting their cries because we are

unwilling to open our arms and welcome

their haunted hurts and necessary needs.


Still, she sits on her petty, priti throne

dishing out her orders that embarrass us,

to keep her figures tidy,  while in Europe

the sprawling camps of hungry evacuees

are greeted, warmed, fed by Europeans

not us. The guilt she should be feeling is

pushed into piles of likewise, party papers,

`and the British standard pretends to change 

but the shameful truth will ever distress me.

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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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