An Immigrant in the Detention Center
John Grey
Guards are like mirrors.
They see me as the opposite
of what I am.
Yes, that’s me, alright –
but my name’s been skewed,
my papers don’t match my face,
and the scar that marked my childhood
has wandered to the wrong side.
Even my teeth - those quiet witnesses –
can’t agree on which ones were filled
before I crossed the border.
I lift my arm, a simple gesture,
but the world won’t mirror me.
It twists my motion, flips my intent,
insists on showing the opposite of what I mean.
Enough of prison.
Enough of reflection.
Enough of requiring proof
so that everyone can know who I am.
Let me go some place
where the wind forgets names,
where floors don’t ache
with the weight of identity.
Can’t I just be myself –
not claimed, not denied –
a pulse that asks nothing,
that answers only with grace.
MARCH 2026
John Grey
Guards are like mirrors.
They see me as the opposite
of what I am.
Yes, that’s me, alright –
but my name’s been skewed,
my papers don’t match my face,
and the scar that marked my childhood
has wandered to the wrong side.
Even my teeth - those quiet witnesses –
can’t agree on which ones were filled
before I crossed the border.
I lift my arm, a simple gesture,
but the world won’t mirror me.
It twists my motion, flips my intent,
insists on showing the opposite of what I mean.
Enough of prison.
Enough of reflection.
Enough of requiring proof
so that everyone can know who I am.
Let me go some place
where the wind forgets names,
where floors don’t ache
with the weight of identity.
Can’t I just be myself –
not claimed, not denied –
a pulse that asks nothing,
that answers only with grace.
MARCH 2026
