the docent guides us
through arrays of modern
and native artists

she knows history
as told through the white man’s lips
my students tune out

in the third floor hall
a border touts a blue sky
peppered with soft clouds

in haunted vocals
the artist sings the DREAM Act
as the clouds roll by

my kids find blankets
as thin as Mylar balloons
and read their stories

when my Honduran
says, “Our blankets were warmer,”
the docent’s perplexed

“You mean… You? You crossed?”
“Yes. And they kept me just like this.”
(like rats in a cage)

“Did you come alone?”
her disbieving voice shakes
(new history here)

“Yes… I was alone.”
her honest confession steals
the docent’s lesson

(she, like all teachers
thought she could share her knowledge
only to be schooled)