Lessons [1] (Posted 4/1/05)
Angie Vasquez

She walks through yellow fields, migrant worker,
bronze goddess, reaper of corn, not worthy
of our scorn, as we mourn her callused hands
and turn away; afraid it might be catching.

She weaves a web protecting her dead children
from memory loss, preserving the story
of their demise in rich red cloth, 
woven by hand, washed with tears, soaked                              
in blood, then sold to western tourists who
can’t understand how a son or daughter disappears.

She works at a factory sweating
for fifty cents an hour, pressing the clothes
rich women will buy to hang in their closets
and not on their slim well fed tan bodies
as they stroll on easy street never breaking a nail.

She buys cafe mochas for $2.50
from the man in the stand
by the corner before driving
through rush hour to work downtown
not savoring the aroma of brown backs
burning in the sun bending to pick
beans one-by-one selecting only
the choicest ones to sell on the
American slave market.

On Getting Out [1] (Posted 4/1/05)
Angie Vasquez

Consumer flames die out
native values return
the war line zone retreats
leaves space to breathe,
gardens begin to grow again 
we eat off rain sunshine alone.
A gazer, seer, reaches out
beseeches the soil,
grow, grow, grow,
and it does and all is
a happy ending, a blessing;
but it’s not like that yet
and people don’t know
what lies ahead,
but we can guess
make informed decisions
about leaders who can’t,
vote, shout, carry signs,
“Not In Our Name.”
Let our revolution ring
as we take back
our democracy,
go radical like
march,
declare a head count,
an accounting of wrongs
committed, blood money
spent for ill gotten gain,
the number of people
dead or shamed
into silence.


Angie Vasquez is a poet living in Milwaukee.

[1] Previously published in Real Change.