by Margaret Towner
She showed up
in my classroom,
one day, a tiny
sliver of life.
Wisps of wilted
plumes framed
her eyes, the color
of the river.
Once left behind
on the rancho
by her mother,
she now carried
buoyant hope north.
School was of no use
when she arrived.
She knew no books,
but she knew
about the river.
The coyotes
never asked
if she knew
how to swim.
They blew up
plastic grocery
bags, tied them
to her arms,
you know,
like wings.
At school
she spoke
of the mud,
how it oozed up
between her toes.
How her feet sank
into the sludge.
She spoke of fear
that wrapped around
her skin like darkness,
of stepping off
into nothing
with only plastic
bags around her arms.
She whispered
of haunting voices
that called her
into the river
as she clung
to the embankment.
Searching for her mother
where water and night
become just one,
she sought to keep
her hope afloat.
I watched
the other girls
encircle her,
as her words traced
the path of the water.
Like she-dogs
they shielded her
from fly balls
on the playground
and hovered close,
as if their presence
could erase that
night, so they could
all forget the
journey north.
Margaret Towner has taught elementary school for many years, working in bilingual programs and with English language learners. She has lived many years in Latin America and performs in a Latin American folkmusic group. A participant in a poetry workshop led by Donna Hilbert, Margaret has been writing about the difficulties faced by immigrant students.
