On Migration from Mexico
By Sylvia Riojas Vaughn
They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves.
From Woody Guthrie’s Plane Wreck at Los Gatos,
also known as Deportee.
They drown in the Rio Grande.
Or thirst to death
inside eighteen-wheelers.
If they make it past the wall,
the wall that separates
my grandmother’s family from mine,
they may die on the job:
−crushed in caved-in trenches,
−falling from rooftops,
−struck by a motorist.
The boss figures replacing
what’s-his-name will be easy.
But what joy in a life filled
with fear of being sent back?
How is it to tremble, anxious
you’ll be separated from your children,
Americans by birth?
I write my congressman
and senators: Let them sing
this is their land.
I get form letters back:
They steal jobs.
They threaten security,
use up water,
carry TB.
They deserve
no song.
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