Hues of Gold

She handed her little boy the gallon jug of water.
Drink, she said. But only a little. We need to walk much further 
before reaching shelter.
The heat scorched through the haze of sun, yellow dog burning 
into her skull, tiring her hold of the child she carried on her hip,
the other holding her hand wearily: mama, estoy cansado...
The men, further ahead, looked to them sullenly, 
threatening to leave them behind in the ashen dust.
The sands turned golden, yet burnt merciless indentations of 
their own brown death, relentless, imprinted heatedly heartless, 
holding hostage her wretched hopelessness.
Yet she stumbled onward, thinking of her son, her baby girl wrapped in a homemade sling, 
blinded to those ruthless men scurrying on without her.
She must dream only of that Eden paradise luring its edifice of gold, her feinted freedom? 
Being an academic not paid enough for her trouble, Ana M. Fores Tamayo wanted instead to do something that mattered: work with asylum seekers. She advocates for marginalized refugee families from Mexico and Central America. 
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