For Emma, an Elegy

Dear Emma,

Your words endure

—cast into bronze

at the base of the new colossus.

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Those words, they were a promise. A vow.

A call to the weary, the broken, the displaced.

“Come,” she said, “you belong here.”

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For a time, they were true.

For a time, your colossus was a beacon.

For a time, she was a lantern in the storm.

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Emma, she no longer calls to the wretched.

Prison for lightning no more—now gilt,

her torch glows only in reflection.

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She serves as a lighthouse—her

silent lips echo cries of caution to

warn the tempest-tost away.

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Your words forever in alloy.

have become an epitaph;

the colossus a headstone.

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At our sea-washed, sunset

gates, she still stands vigil.

What do her mild eyes see?

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Masses, huddled, poor, and tired, told to turn back.

Bodies, swallowed by tides without seeing land.

Children, alone, on trial in a foreign tongue.

She sees walls rise. She sees bridges burn.

She sees doors lock, fists clench,

and backs turn.

Emma, she sees men in suits

raise their arms—

in a fascist salute.

The fire isn't quenched,

it smolders.

Yet some still tend the flame.

They are not mourners.

They are not eulogists.

They are its defenders.

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And

we will

not go quietly.

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