A cracked sidewalk marked one end.
Contemporary you was dyed red with secrets.
Separate paths led us to MA and MD
Closer in abbreviation than mileage.
Your shadow trailed me, a product of parental pressure.
Neverland was never farther away.
Heart-gasps one more distant step each day
You seem to have misplaced your round trip ticket.
Night-Day is a lonely cycle.
I tried to dial– you were chasing a theoretical study of space.
It was your nightmare (my dream) of a skyline brushed
By sable palms.
A telephone rings, each sound echoes the words:
Home was where the heart was
There was a place like Home
Home sweet nothing
We both knew that sentiment was long gone.
You pressed release.
Land of the Free
Immigrant, your accent betrays you.
the sinking raft
the shivering fence
the shuddering plane
the stinking cargo hold
The New Colossus smirks at you, wretched refuse of the dustbin of history
The acrid smell of the turnpike claws itself into your mind
The screeching whine of the lawnmower rips through your eardrum
Bienvenido a la tierra de la libertad.
Nicolas Quesada is a first-year student in Boston University’s Archaeology and Art History departments. Originally from Miami, he has been published in Elysium. He is currently researching where mid-19th century Bostonians traveled to buy their “healthful” medicines.