When I hear ‘migration,’ I think of ships

By Christian Hanz Lozada

chopping through tides and promise.
My coworker says, “I mean, I’m white, 
so, implicit bias much? We have no story,” 
referring to her kid’s project asking
about how the family’s migration
was affected by World War 2 and the Cold War.

She says, “I understand I can’t say anything,
but we’ve been American since the 18th century,
so there’s been no migration.”
In my head I have solutions: Has your family moved
from state to state, like the Japanese Americans pulled
from their homes or the African Americans moving

to fill a Japanese American-sized void to work factories
and shipyards? Has your family migrated from economy
to economy, like the migration from planting and picking
to packing and making? Has your family never had to run,
never had that nothing-holding-us-here, never had that

nothing-to-stake-a-future-on, always the absence
of the absence? Maybe write about your migration,
after the ship, when you carried the sword and the gun,
the whip and the blankets. Maybe write about the bow-wave
your presence creates, even when the ship doesn’t move.
Maybe write about the unintended migrations that happen
as your presence displaces everything around it.


Christian Hanz Lozada aspires to be like a cat, a creature that doesn’t care about the subtleties of others and who will, given time and circumstance, eat their owner. He authored the poetry collection He’s a Color, Until He’s Not and co-authored Leave with More Than You Came With. His Pushcart Prize nominated poetry has appeared in journals from California to Australia with stops in Hawaii, Korea, and the United Kingdom. Christian has featured at the Autry Museum and Beyond Baroque. He lives in San Pedro, CA and uses his MFA to teach his neighbors and their kids at Los Angeles Harbor College.

Photo credit: Dennis Jarvis via a Creative Commons license.


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God in Hiding

By Kayla Blau

 

Our five-year-old fingers plucked mancala beads,
wove white flower crowns,
blew dandelion seed wishes.
Our Barbies knew no god.
Our families spoke nothing of politics.
Sleepovers at hers were cardamom and allspice,
steaming lamb nestled under mounds of rice, fried eggplant, labneh and cucumber.
Sleepovers at mine, sustained by cardboard box macaroni and cheese,
spoons slick with I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter.
In middle school, her AIM screen name read jordanianprincess91.
Later, she told me her parents fibbed, spun stories of Jordanian roots
rather than risk the reclamation of “Palestinian” in our majority-white suburb.
My ancestors hid the same, cut the “stein” from our last name,
the trade-offs the hunted make for survival, for safety.
Later still, ICE agents forced Leila’s parents’ hand,
plucked her family from U.S suburbia back to East Jerusalem.
When I visited her,
Holy Land revealed
metal cages, Jews-only streets,
protestors spouting “Death to Arabs” in the same language my ancestors prayed in.
What of apartheid is holy?
What god reigns here?

 


Kayla Blau (she/her) is a queer writer and facilitator based in Seattle, WA. Her work can be found in The Seventh Wave, The Stranger, Crosscut, and South Seattle Emerald, among others. Her poetry and personal essays are included in anthologies such as Emerald Reflections, Writing for Peace: Resistance Issue, and Wanderlust. More of her work can be found at www.keepgoing.press.

Photo credit: Kashfi Halford via a Creative Commons license.


A note from Writers Resist

Thank you for reading! If you appreciate creative resistance and would like to support it, you can make a small, medium or large donation to Writers Resist from our Give a Sawbuck page.

 

The Right Hat

By Luke Walters

 

The little girl’s teal hat is what caught my eye. She and a woman were hugging the bottom of a gravel drainage ditch, hidden from sight—except to me, perched high in my rig.

I’d just passed dozens more like them sitting cross-legged along the highway next to green-striped border patrol trucks. Their hike across the desert from the Mexican border at an end.

Having headed the back way to Phoenix to avoid the zoomers and the Department of Public Safety, I’d left Tucson early to pick up a trailer of fresh chilis at a farm west of Casa Grande. With the sun rising behind me and miles of highway in front of me, I’d been sleep-driving 75-mph down I-8, a four-lane, flat-straight black-ribbon of asphalt cut through the rough Sonoran Desert. After skating on and off the white edge line for maybe twenty miles, I decided I wanted to live for another day, turned off, and wrestled my 18-wheeler into the parking lot of the rest stop—nothing more than paved-over desert with a half-dozen picnic tables. That’s when I spotted them.

Now, parked lengthwise in the empty lot, I scooted on over to the passenger’s side, pushed past my stack of crossword puzzle books, opened the door, and let my legs dangle out. A can of Monster in one hand and an unfiltered Camel in the other, I relaxed, taking in the monotone landscape. My old favorites, Waylon and Dolly, brought back too many memories and the regrets that came with them, so I listened now to Mozart.

The woman and the girl raised their heads to stare at me. I paid them no mind. After a quick jolt of caffeine and a hit of nicotine, I planned to be back on the road. The pair of fence jumpers weren’t any of my concern.

At least that’s what I thought, until the green-striped SUV of the border patrol passed through the lot.

After scanning the desert behind the picnic tables, the driver, a woman in an olive green uniform, stopped next to me and opened her window. She had the same burnt-brown skin and coal-black hair as the pair in the drainage ditch.

“Howdy, officer,” I said, shutting off the music. “Beautiful morning for catching beaners,  ain’t it?”

Not answering, she gave me her cop smile while studying me. Too much Burger King and too many bottles of Bud showed on my face and my ass. Pretty, I wasn’t.

“Sir, is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

I blew out a smoke ring. “Yeah, there is.”

She watched me, tapping her steering wheel, as I crushed out my butt on the heel of my boot.

I raised my eyes to her.

The woman pulled the little girl close.

“Well, what is it?” the officer asked.

Taking off my Make America Great Again ball cap, I held it out, turning it for her to see. “Just got this. Looks nice, don’t it? Some big-smiling guy who wanted me to vote was passing them out at the garage. I liked my old John Deere better, but it was grungy—all sweat stained and greasy.”

Squaring my new red cap on my head, I said, “Not sure what it is, but somehow, there’s something about this one that just doesn’t feel right.”

The agent waited for me to say more. When I said nothing, she asked, “Is that all?”

“Yeah, that’s all.”

“Okay, sir,” she said, rolling her eyes like she’d been talking to someone simple, and she zipped out onto the highway.

I glanced toward the ditch. The little girl and woman smiled at me. Those were the first genuine smiles I’d gotten in ages. They lasted with me all the way to Phoenix, where I dropped them off.

 


Ed Radwanski, aka Luke Walters, resides in Arizona. His flash fiction has appeared in Yellow Mama, Mash Stories, Post Card Shorts, and in Envision – Future Fiction, an anthology by Kathy Steinemann, published on Amazon.

Photo by Ryan Riggins on Unsplash.

 

Longing to Belong

By Elizabeth Weaver

 

girl with eyes too large and
milky teeth fairies must wait
years for in country that ripped
her from Mama locked her in
metal cage no laughter crosses
her howl swells into lost
others’ sounds for families
babies resounds past soiled
dreams strips belonging as
those ripping teach children
how arms are weapons

 


Elizabeth Weaver, M.A., is a Squaw Valley Community Writer whose work appears in dirtcakes, RATTLE, 5AM, and other publications. Visit her website at ElizabethOakleyWeaver.com.

Photo credit: United Nations.

Monarchy

By Matthew Nelson Hendryx

The warrant for my informant’s arrest meant meeting in a public place where we could keep track of anyone approaching. We settled for the revamped carousel on the National Mall. He could watch in all directions as we rotated. I, freelance reporter Stacy Prickelton, was meeting with a prominent member of the Operation Zap opposition, who suggested I refer to him as “Crazy Cake,” to protect his identity.

He arrived carrying a Bugs Bunny mask. “A good disguise for a children’s area, don’t you think?” he said.

“I don’t think the mask is necessary.”

“You sure?” he asked.

“We’re safe,” I said, not interested in debating the pros and cons of a bunny mask.

The informant was in his early forties, dumpy build, and wide-eyed as a Jack-a-lantern, but he looked scared instead of scary. With my notepad resting on the top of a horse’s head next to his camel, we quickly got used to the fact that he was up when I was down.

“Start the story from the beginning,” I said. “Don’t worry about repeating common knowledge. It’s important for me to hear it all in your words.”

“It started,” he said, “with President Rump’s press conference, the same day the New York Times exposé came out about bug zappers installed on Rump’s Wall. When asked about the Times piece, the president said, ‘I’m taking action to stop the largest wave of undocumented Mexicans of any president.’”

Crazy Cake paused to look around. “At the time, no one knew what he was talking about. Then came the ‘Eleven O’clock Tweet’: ‘The Oyamel forest should be bombed.’ It puzzled everyone. Finally, Jan Gather realized the Oyamel forest is in Mexico, where monarch butterflies stay each winter. Then they fly north, across the border, in the tens of thousands, possibly millions.”

“So, butterflies created a policy problem?”

“An inside source, called ‘Tuning Fork,’ leaked the White House position. None of the monarchs applied for visas and they constituted the majority of undocumented immigrants coming into this country. To stop them required Operation ZAP—Zap All Pests.”

“What do you know about Tuning Fork?”

“The Post knows the details,” Crazy Cake said, “but the scuttlebutt is she’s young and attractive and fed up with his groping. Wants revenge.”

“And your take on the Posse Comatosis?”

“It’s one of those sleeper militias. No surprise they issued a statement that it was about time a president took a stand against wet-back butterflies. But Press Secretary XXIV calling them a reputable organization shocked a lot of people.” Crazy Cake paused for the carousel to do one rotation as he peered across the mall before continuing “That’s when the U.S. Butterfly Society—actually the Lepidopterists Society—pointed out that in the Monarch’s life cycle exactly three generations are born in the U.S. Each Fall the third returns to Mexico. Those three generations are U.S. citizens. Zappers would be killing American citizens returning to Mexico.”

“The Secretary of the Interior sounded befuddled when he announced the On-in-Spring-and-Off-in-Fall policy. What was that about?”

“According to Tuning Fork the Secretary believed the policy was for safe passage of all children of exiled Kings and Queens living in the U.S.”

The merry-go-round stopped, and I went over to give the attendant another couple of tickets.  When I returned, I said, “Give me more background on this visa thing.”

“Monarch butterflies, if they were citizens, were to acquire and carry visas.  All monarchs would be stopped, and those without documentation would be treated as illegal immigrants and deported immediately, without appeal. A sub-committee of the Lepidopterists Society formed the Committee Opposed to Monarch Eviction.”

“They didn’t know that people would abbreviate it to COME?”

“It was intentional—‘COME’ as in ‘welcome.’ COME pointed out the documents were beyond the lifting capacity of any butterfly. The administration countered that monarchs could purchase small drones to perform the task.”

Crazy Cake studied someone in the distance, then his face relaxed. “That’s when I joined COME, just as they filed for an injunction in the Minnesota District Court—their state insect is the monarch. The court issued an injunction against ‘stop and detain’ measures, but the rest of Operation ZAP was allowed to proceed. In other words, the bug zappers would stay in place.”

“Tell me about February thirteenth.”

“The administration announced the success of Operation ZAP. All the zappers were up and running. On the 14th, COME wanted to bring a massive number of monarchs across the border. That’s why the announcement, ‘Valentine’s Day Massacres ZAP.’ The San Antonio Express reported numerous sightings of monarch butterflies and included a photo of one sunning itself on a statue of Sam Houston. The monarchs had obviously found another way across the border.”

“The administration didn’t comment?”

“No. Tuning Fork said they knew it would be a public relations nightmare if the multi-billion-dollar wall failed to prevent the largest wave of immigrants.”

“Do you have any proof that COME was responsible for the smuggling?”

When his camel was in the down position, he grabbed his satchel. Fumbling around in it, a granola bar and a pair of soaks fell out. He was a man on the run. Ignoring the spilled items, he extracted three crumpled pages.

“Here’s a transcript.”  He handed it over.  “You can read it.”

Crazy Cake: Do you know how we’re bringing the monarchs in?

Secretary: Oh, yes. I’m good friends with Mary [Fuddleston]. COME needed a container that had air holes and was big enough for butterflies. Just after we elected Mary for president, she came up with the idea while helping her daughter, Frizzy. Frizzy was in tears because her Suzuki violin teachers said she played “Twinkle Little Star” out of tune. Anyway, Mary realized Suzuki violins would provide the perfect solution. Did you know violins are made with a glue that breaks easily to allow repairs?

Crazy Cake: No.

Secretary: I didn’t either. But it meant taking the back off and putting it back on was easy. Mary experimented with five volunteer monarchs and found the ‘f’ holes allowed sufficient oxygen for the butterflies to remain comfortable. We diverted all Suzuki violins coming from Japan headed for the U.S. to first go to Mexico. The operation started on Valentine’s Day.

Crazy Cake: Didn’t Immigration become suspicious with hundreds of violins coming across the border?

Secretary: It was thousands. They didn’t bother to look inside because each violin had a different shipping address. We pulled it off by having supporters across the country start Suzuki classes. Every time Customs checked to see if the sale was legit, they found a kid’s parents had actually purchased it. The kids loved the fact they were supporting the cause.

The carousel made one of its periodic stops, and five children with birthday hats got on.

Crazy Cake pointed at the kids and whispered, “Spies.”

“Not likely,” I said, “although they might be Suzuki violinists.”

“Then they should be careful.” He gave them a final check and returned to me.

“So how did the administration learn of the smuggling operation?”

“Rump ordered the FBI to investigate. We spotted the agents too late to cover out tracks.”

Crazy Cake scrutinized the Mall as we revolved, his right hand in a nervous quiver. “It was mid-March when Rump surprised everyone with his executive order making owning a violin illegal. All violins were to be turned in at the nearest police station. People found owning a violin after April 1 would be arrested. Most people thought the president was pulling an April Fool’s joke, but given his tweets, it became clear he wasn’t. The FBI acquired warrants for suspected violin owners—orchestra violinists and violin teachers. There was confusion whether the order covered violas, cellos, and basses, but Rump amended the order to include all stringed instruments. Then amended it again to exclude pianos and harps.”

“What was COME’s response?”

“We organized the parade of Suzuki violinists marching up and down the Mall and around the White House playing ‘Twinkle Little Star.’”

The carousel stopped, and I was out of tickets, but the attendant indicated we could stay on. “COME was responsible for the march?” I asked.

“Definitely. I was in a meeting with Mary Fuddleston in the final planning stage.”

“You’re willing to go on the record as a source?”

He hesitated. “Yes, but you can’t use my name until I’m out of the country.”

“Go on.”

“COME thought they had the administration cornered. How do you oppose fourth graders? What a mistake on our part. The Washington D.C. police arrested over one thousand of the violinists until the jails were full. The AP released photos of the police cuffing fourth-graders and smashing their violins. President Rump brushed it off with a tweet: ‘Liberal parents are cowards making their kids break the law.’ We sought support from other organizations around the country. Numerous groups started petitions against ZAP—even the AFL-CIO, which argued there was not one instance of an American worker being replaced by a butterfly. Within a day of Rump’s executive order, members of the House raised objections that the president’s actions were the equivalent of legislating laws, and therefore under the purview of Congress alone. The president tweeted ‘Fuck Congress. See if I care.’ Everything sped up then. The House and the Senate introduced bills to eliminate the ZAP policy. Opposition was limited to the members of the RARE caucus.”

“The Rump is Always Right on Everything caucus?”

“Yes. Despite the caucus, the Speaker and the Senate Majority Leader guaranteed passage before dinner. Rump vetoed that evening, and the next morning, the vote to override passed.”

“Then the courts got involved?”

“Not yet. It was the infamous Black Wednesday tweet: ‘They can’t make me stop ZAP.’ The Congressional leadership asked the Supreme Court to address the constitutional breach without going through the appeals process. The Court didn’t want to do it, but COME found evidence that some justices had recently engaged in sexual harassment. We went to the Chief Justice and said, ‘Hear the case or we release the evidence.’ We never expected the 9-0 decision against the President. At that point everyone thought ZAP was dead.”

“That’s when Rump said he’d ignore the court?”

“Yes. And the Supreme Court ordered the U.S. Marshals to use the bug zappers for target practice.”

“The TV coverage was brilliant.”

“No one in COME or Congress or anywhere else expected President Rump would call up the Posse Comatosis to defend his policy against U.S. Marshals.”

“When did COME members know they needed to go underground?”

“It was the tweet, ‘COME members are terrorists.’ We issued a general warning to the membership. Then the FBI arrested the first dozen or so members and any children violinists, including Mary and Frizzy, and sent them to the detention center on Guam. The administration won’t say how many. Nearly all COME members decided to disappear. I’ve been on the run ever since, but they’re closing in on me.”

At that moment, the carousel tune went ‘Pop! goes the weasel,’ and I saw someone looking our way through a pair of binoculars, from the other side of the mall. “We need to leave,” I said. “Put on your Bugs Bunny mask.”


Matthew Nelson Hendryx writes short stories, novels and poetry. He studied at Indiana University, London School of Economics, and the University of Wisconsin. Currently, he is focusing on short stories, but plans to dive into redrafting his first novel. Although he is a resident of Fort Wayne, Indiana, he spends a couple of months a year in New York City. His best writing occurs when one of his four cats is in his lap.

Photo credit: Catseye Pest. Really.

Birds of America

By Ellen Stone

 

Deep in the bright red
country of the sun,
the birds of America
raucous, wild, immigrant
gather, having flocked in bands
surged over borders as snow melts.
By July, they rise early to the party
in full bloom – voices piercing
our cottony night dreams –
having taken temporary residence
in tiny wooden boxes, old barns
or the cool, damp woods – for now –
for this uncertain summer
where they can dip & soar & glide
like the purest bit of floating fluff
off the cottonwood down by the river
or the drooping milkweed in the garden.

How odd, really, that we welcome them
with open arms – so unabashedly, like tourists
in our own hometown, peering through binoculars.
Build them sturdy homes, feed them
tasty morsels through all seasons, celebrate
their foreign dress, strange plumage. Mating
habits so unlike our own. Lament a young one
fallen from the nest. We are such humanitarians
to birds. It’s sad they cannot talk to us, thank us
for our gracious hospitality. Here, in America,
all traveling birds are welcome – the more
garish, bright & tropical, the better.

 


Ellen Stone teaches at Community High School in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Her poems have appeared recently in Passages North, The Collagist, The Citron Review, The Museum of Americana, and Fifth Wednesday. She is the author of The Solid Living World (Michigan Writers’ Cooperative Press, 2013). Ellen’s poetry has been nominated twice for a Pushcart prize and Best of the Net.

Photo by José Ignacio García Zajaczkowski on Unsplash.

Wednesday’s Child

By Sara Marchant

 

On Wednesday, during peer review, a student waves me over to say something in a voice so low and hoarse I strain to catch the words.

“ICE went into Cardenas Market and took people away.”

“What?” I say. I must have misunderstood.

The students are reviewing papers with topics like Foucault’s panopticism, patriarchy’s rape culture, Snowden’s leaks, and The Hunger Game’s inversion of the love triangle. I have to rearrange my thoughts.

“ICE went into the grocery store and took people away. They were buying food and got taken.” He’s still whispering.

Abruptly, I’m sitting at the desk next to him. He raises his voice.

“People are afraid to buy food. Food.”

All the students go quiet. His words reach them, my selfie generation sweethearts. He looks around, uncomfortable with his new audience, then back to me.

“What are we supposed to do?”

What am I supposed to tell him? To say to all of them? Am I to tell him that I am as sad, scared, and confused as he? I stand up from the desk and address the entire class.

“What are we supposed to do?”

“Vote?” Crystal says.

I’d offered extra credit to anyone who registers.

“Do the shopping for people who can’t,” Reyna offers.

“Shop at the white people grocery,” Rigoberto throws in.

Everyone laughs, including our one white student, Penny. The rest of us in the class are people of color in our varying shades of not-white. We are anxious people, but united in our sentiment, our goal: What do we do when our people are targeted while engaged in activities of daily living? There are no answers, we decide, not yet. We promise each other to keep asking and trying.

•   •   •

On Friday, in another class, a student asks to speak to me privately. “You can walk with me to the copy center,” I say. Because we live in the world we do: As adjunct faculty, I don’t have an office. I’m not paid for office hours. I try never to be alone with male students.

We walk across campus and my student tells me he has to be absent the next week, for his work.

“Fine,” I say. “Keep up with the assignments. Nothing is due next week anyway.”

“Everyone thinks I’m a cop,” he says. “I’m not. I’m asking you to keep this between us because everyone in class hates ICE so much.”

I trip over nothing and, worried that he’ll try to assist me, take a sideways step so he can’t touch me.

“See?” he says, as if I’d said something or done something overt. “I need you to keep my job between us.”

Never mind that he doesn’t need to share this with me at all. I’ve forgiven his absence. Did he want me to forgive his profession as well? Perhaps because I am silent, he keeps talking.

“I’m not ashamed of my job,” he says. “I’m not a traitor to my people. I was born here. The illegals are not my people.”

“No human—” I begin from habit. I am not allowed to finish.

“I know, I know,” he says. “No human being is illegal.”

You’d be surprised how often my male students feel entitled to interrupt me. Unless you are a woman, then you’re not surprised at all but merely as tired of it as I am.

“If you’re not ashamed,” I ask, “why must it be a secret? When we are discussing the subject in class, why don’t you join in? Present another side for discussion? Another view?”

“Because everyone will hate me. My peer review group might kick me out. Or they’ll get that look on their faces.”

Like the one on mine.

“Don’t believe everything you see on the news,” he says. “Most of what they say isn’t true.”

“Did you just say that to me, your critical thinking professor?” Enraged, I draw strength from the anger. “Do you think I share anything in the classroom that hasn’t been vetted and verified? Have you not heard anything I’ve said about checking sources?”

“I apologize!” he says. “I apologize. I forgot who I’m speaking to and you’re right about one thing …”

One thing. I’m right about one thing.

“Every ICE office, every station, every television is on the FOX News channel. We’re not allowed to change it. You’re right about the feedback loop.”

We are almost to the copy center. It’s a beautiful Southern California day. The jacaranda trees are in purple bloom; the lawn is being mowed. There are hummingbirds strafing the rose bushes. Everything smells fresh and clean and safe. This interview is almost over. I can see the end in sight.

“If you know that much, can recognize that …” I don’t know where I’m going with this thought. Haven’t I told my class, his class, over and over, that you can’t argue against irrationality? There’s nothing to grab onto. When people aren’t capable of critical thought, arguing against their emotions is not only futile, but dangerous.

Now I’m thankful this student, this ICE agent, isn’t in my other class. I hope no one in this class, his class, has inadvertently let slip their undocumented status. I let my last attempt at a sentence go and start over.

“I’ll only keep your secret,” I say, “if you promise never to report on any student at this school.”

He looks genuinely hurt. I shrug at his pain. It’s good he should feel something. Even if it’s only for himself.

“I’d never,” he says. “And I’m about to graduate.”

This is cold comfort. We reach the copy center. In silence I make copies, in silence we begin the return walk. Why hasn’t he left me to walk back alone? More confessions are coming, oh lovely.

“My family asks me how I can live with myself. A Mexican man with an accent, no less.”

“Good question,” I say. I always praise good questions in my classroom, questions are the basis of critical thought, after all. And I’ll grant him no absolution.

“If 80 percent of the people I’m arresting are criminals and the rest are innocent mothers and fathers, I can live with that.”

Whatever he sees on my face stops him. There’s a woman’s restroom up ahead and I point to it.

“I’m going in there,” I say, “and you should go back to class.”

He turns with a martial pivot and walks away.

The restroom is empty and after I vomit I stand for a moment with the cold water running over my wrists. The second half of the class must be taught, my copies spilled on the bathroom floor need to be picked up. I have two hours until the privacy of my car and a good cry. Thinking about my mother’s Jewish family—were they innocent mothers and fathers or criminals?—doesn’t help me. Thinking about my Mexican father’s family—would my student consider them murderers and rapists?—only makes me angrier. What does he see when he looks in the mirror? I wonder as I look at myself.

Then I shut off the water, pick up the papers, and I return to my classroom. I keep his secret, he keeps his side of the bargain—as far as I know. I never look him in the eye again.

•   •   •

Wednesdays and Fridays pass by, two months of them. The school year ends; my students say goodbye. Every time I shop for groceries, I think of my Wednesday child. When Jeff Sessions orders the separation of children from their parents and ICE puts them all in different camps, cages and tent cities, I email my Friday child:

What happens when the innocent mothers and fathers and the breastfeeding infants become the criminals? What then?

He never replies.

 


Sara Marchant received her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of California Riverside-Palm Desert. Her work has been published by Full Grown PeopleBrilliant FlashFiction, The Coachella Review, East Jasmine Review, ROAR, and Desert Magazine. Her essay, “Proof of Blood,” was anthologized in All the Women in My Family Sing. Her novella, Let Me Go, was anthologized by Running Wild Press, and her novella, The Driveway Has Two Sides, will be published by Fairlight Books in July 2018. Sara’s work has been performed in The New Short Fiction Series in Los Angeles, California, and her memoir, Proof of Blood, will be published by Otis Books in their 2018/2019 season. She is a founding editor of Writers Resist.

Art credit: ¿Donde Esta? by Laura Orem, a Writers Resist poetry editor.

Border Children on the News

By Laura Grace Weldon

Frantic families send their children
past drug runners and thieves,
through deserts, on tops of freight trains,
over 1,700 miles seeking
refuge at our border.

Tonight, we tweeze sushi into our mouths
under a blast of chilled Happy Hour air.
Screens broadcast dark-eyed children
behind chain link fences
while protestors chant
Go back home! and U-S-A!

A congressman vows to expedite
their return to where they belong.
“Yeah, deprived of a hearing,” we mutter
and a guy eating spicy duck wings
next to us says “There are laws for a reason.”

Agile in conflict studies,
the bartender sets out
complimentary edamame.
Offers refills.
Changes the TV station.
Lets the comprehensible violence
of hockey soothe
as our drinks arrive.

 

“Border Children on the News” was previously published by Blue Collar Review.


Laura Grace Weldon is the author of a poetry collection titled Tending and a handbook of alternative education, Free Range Learning. She has a collection of essays due out soon. Laura has written poetry with nursing home residents, used poetry to teach conflict resolution, and painted poems on beehives, although her work appears in more conventional places such as J Journal, Penman Review, Literary Mama, Christian Science Monitor, Mom Egg Review, Dressing Room Poetry Journal, Shot Glass Journal, and others. Connect with her on Facebook, Twitter or at her site, lauragraceweldon.com

Photo credit: United Soybean Board via a Creative Commons license.