Their ticket to leave was
their hollow eyes,
shrapnel, a toddlers coffin and
the black milk served at dusk
They left with passports signed
by muzzle flames and rape.
They carried bundles tied with strings of tears
We watched them coming;
waves of flesh, crossing rivers, seas
on foot, in boats, in cars.
Inflated life-wests moored.
We called them migrants, terrorists,
refugees at best.
But we closed the doors and said:
“We need your papers not your scars.”
We tore their tickets, named them fake
and thought the sunset looked like blood.
For Fireblossom’s prompt at toads.
January 4, 2018