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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