It is

red paint
in heat
globs down my room walls
bleeding the origins of my mother
and the cries of my daughters

the sanctuary is not failing;
it is rebuilding

purity
in pain
curled under the rubble
drinking warm water of rivers
and the tears of my fathers

the journey to america is not hard;
it is living

yellow
in diaspora
flood upon flags
and the stiches come undone

the country is not under siege;
it is already ours