If your toes can’t breathe, neither can your heart.—a cobbler
The President’s Prada loafers and white golf shoes
don’t give his little piggies room to breathe,
they’re all squished like privileged white sausages.
His leather-encased feet are disconnected from the brown,
brown Earth. He cannot feel the pulse of rivers
and people who live under his nose.

The President needs to take some time to play
“This Little Piggy” with his toes. This little piggy
went to  market (for a heart)…this little piggy
had roast beef (after an undocumented immigrant
prepared it in a refrigerated plant)…and this little piggy
stayed home (because the president thought his kind
were all rapists and thieves).

Sometimes we can feel so disconnected from
the far-away parts of ourselves—hearts and toes.
We must remind ourselves we are both orange,
I, terra cotta, and you, Hawaiian Tropic,
the same color as the sun and the Border Wall
that stands between us. So many things
are orange: Jupiter and papayas, prison
jumpsuits and chanclas…and the rust that sets in
on dreams, heavy with the scent of shackles.
Lucinda Zamora-Wiley is a poet who resides in Brownsville, Texas, transplanted from San Antonio, originally. She earned her MFA in Creative Writing at UTRGV in 2016, and it is one of her highest privileges to have worked with poets, Billy Collins, Juan Felipe Herrera, and Emmy Perez along her writing career. She looks forward to working with poet, Sharon Olds, in summer of 2018. Lucinda was recently nominated by this press for a Pushcart Prize Award in Poetry; the nomination is an honor for which she is profoundly grateful.
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