twas the night before

’Twas the night before Halloween, and all through the night

porch lights were trembling, lanterns a shaky bright.

Windows breathed fog, old bones on the sill clacked—

shadows moved quick where the sidewalks were cracked.


It’s Halloween and all through the night…

people are running, running from ICE.

Without a care for the kids, the Constitution, or us,

ICE continues to “follow orders,” though they know it’s nuts.


Bootsteps like thunder on stairwells of brick,

masks cover faces that find this not a trick. 

Doorbells that once rang for laugher and treats

now echo with dread down the row-house streets.


Pumpkins still grin but their smiles feel thin;

a siren sounds tightly where laughter had been.

Mothers hold memories, fathers hold breath,

children hold hands in the hush before heft.


Yet neighbors pass candles from window to door,

warm palms say “with you,” and “not anymore.”

We stitch up the dark with a stubborn small light,

a chorus of porch bulbs refusing the night.


And if fear comes knocking in uniforms cold,

we answer with courage, with hands to hold.

On this eve of pretend, we choose what is real:

our rights, our humanity—no goblin can steal.

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