I can count to ten on my fingers—
Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
Now, we can’t breathe.
Every second an inhale,
A search for oxygen needles
In the charred remains of 
Fourteenth century sins. 


The House is burning,
Invisible flames dig into our throats and 
Pump viscous fear into our veins—
All to throw us over the border.
A familiar attack,
The kind our ancestors resisted
Until they couldn’t.
A familiar attack,
But with different (more) weapons
Bull—ets
No space no exhale no tomorrow 
I can count to ten—
Onetwothreefourfivesix
(almost) 
Until
I don’t make it out alive.