See the dark trucks

across the street.

They encircle a man,

pin him down.

Draw the blinds, stop

answering the door.

We watch in a silence like a rushing river

where I drown. I fear this silence.

Sooner or later, they will come to our door.

The only reason we haven’t left

is our daughter.

When I left,

I was seven.

Imagine us having

rights. Activists tell us here

even the undocumented have rights.

A sighting.

A close call.

A friend taken.

Collective panic.

Our daughters FaceTime us from grocery store aisles,

and, still, they buy the wrong brand.

Each of us will help

the others live.

Agents shatter the window of a man’s pickup.

Gunshots echo at the downtown community center.

Such hands carry out unavoidable

violence. No restraining the reach and

range. Rules break like ice

in a country with no laws.

This nation clings to circumstance to feel

not responsible.

The priest suspends mass.

Why, in a church, do we need

documents? Did Jesus

ask for documents

when he took care of the poor,

the vulnerable?

Each of us will

help the other live.

Instead, we set up  

Anne Frank rooms

stocked with water,

folding chairs, bathroom access.

I sit with the fear of not knowing

what will happen

to the children.

I fear this silence.

The Home Depot lot is raided

repeatedly. Still, I go to work.

Homemade tamales, pupusas, salsas, pickled vegetables.

Arroz con leche, agua fresca, Monster, Red Bull.

Customers stare into the absence of their neighbors.

Men who would not, women who could not

speak. We keep silent

but keep on wanting freedom.

When the raids stop, I’m more afraid.

I fear this silence.

This is how they get us.

When we start to feel comfortable again.

Apá returns to The Home Depot lot with

two other construction workers.

He’s the father of six boys and a girl.

Everyone’s dad.

Apá buys three tamales and asks, “Would you give me another

to feed the pigeons?”

Life is here,

in the country that betrays us.