We watch them on TV, running to cling
to the wings of the last plane as it leaves Kabul,
 
or boarding a rickety rowboat in Libya, infants
swaddled in kangas on their mothers’ backs,
 
or crossing from Somalia to Kenya
in search of water, a bowl of ugali or rice.
 
I imagine flying above the earth
and seeing the millions of migrants below--
 
colonies and colonies traveling
in every direction, their search for
 
safety reshaping the world into a maze
of tunnels and caves as they try
 
to begin again—and then my imagination
goes blank, the TV showing a baseball cap,
 
baby bottles, life jackets floating on the sea,
and the only sound is the whirring
 
of a helicopter staring down, its blades
furious, chopping at an unforgiving sky.