In the last few years, migrants have caused a great deal of controversy, especially in the United States. Mostly illegal, often receiving free benefits, which is questionable. Some empathize, and many are angered, but we are all human beings. Once here, some steal, some get arrested, and a few become good citizens. Many will be sent back to their homelands, some will remain here, and many will die in terrible places. This is the poem of one who died alone in the desert. The entire poem is at the bottom; scroll down.

Michael Lee Johnson, a native Chicago area poet and Canadian citizen, is an internationally published poet from 46 countries or republics. His published poems have been nominated for 7 Pushcart and 7 Best of the Net nominations. He is a proud Illinois State Poetry Society member, [ Ссылка ], and an Academy of American Poets member, [ Ссылка ]. His poems have been translated into several foreign languages.

A Migrant’s Empty Cup
By Michael Lee Johnson

This quiet Sonoran Desert
this sun is going down,
touching my burnt cow
leather skin for the last time,
with death-piercing final touching.
There is no water in this migrant’s cup.
Ideate the power, the image of my soul
the only mystery that remains.
Decamp me from this lasting hell.
Hear that Turkey Vulture cry,
carrion flesh mine —
My intelligence was once vital
now lapses into last fantasies of red
blood covered in guilt scenarios.
My stolen Niki sneakers from Salvation Army,
Chicago, multi-colors—traveled multi-states.
Ashamed, I bloat, decompose
bones to stone.
Memories, Venezuela, Chicago,
New Mexico, California, Arizona.

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