oppression poems

They didn’t hear the footsteps, not
at first. The street dark, hushed, just
the steady tapping of raindrops against
the asphalt. Hand in hand, they ambled

toward home, one immigrant, both gay,
celebrating a year of firsts, a life of forevers.
So much to plan before they married. Visas,
lawyers, whom to tell and when. How to piece

together joy in a broken world. But this was
New York, the haven of rainbows. Nothing
really mattered. Until they heard the footsteps,
sauntering at first, echoing their own, then

hastening. Their hands tightened, knuckles
whitened, knees buckling, footsteps neared
in lockstep with theirs, his tread splatting in the
now pounding rain. Their joy detoured toward

mortal fear. Their house in view, they bolted
like young colts for safety, locked themselves
Indoors, and exhaled. Footsteps stopped at
the door. The knob turned slowly. Click. Click.

The deadbolt had been their defense and as
footsteps faded into the night, they knew there.
was nothing left to say, nothing to do. Calling for help
would mean deportation, the severance of souls,

the end of a journey that had just begun. Time to sleep.
Another chance tomorrow to forge ahead as usual, go to
work, run errands, make phone calls, discuss wedding
plans … and steel themselves for footsteps along the way.