In the Palms of My Hands

The sand that coats the ground
holds the shape of the wind
It's all beige and blue 
until the moon rises and the stars compile a brief glimpse of the Milky Way

Every day I watch them die
in the palms of my hands
The only flowers that plant roots
in my skin
sprout from the tops of cacti

I cup no water,
no forgiving shade 

On good days,
the dying save themselves
or are saved by the border patrol 
who claim to be the heroes

I watch them and do nothing
while the dry heat of the 
stringent sun sucks the life out of 
the innocent

But is it really the sun's fault? 

If only my hands were not graveyard valley
If only the immigration system could be changed 
If only the Americans would stop repeating their xenophobic history 
If only the money spent on keeping them out was spent on 
protecting their livelihood 

If only we could find peace.