A NIGHTMARE OF COLOR

by Dick Altman

 

 

As reports come out across the country of Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents detaining Native Americans, a couple dozen New Mexico lawmakers are pushing a bill that would allow tribal citizens to update their state-issued IDs to reflect their enrollment status. House Bill 20 would give people enrolled in a federally recognized tribe the option to request a “distinguishing mark” identifying them as Native American on their driver’s license or other identification cards. A similar law passed in Arizona last year went into effect in January. On a sample license posted online by that state’s Motor Vehicle Division, “Native American” is written on the bottom left side of the card. —New Mexico In Depth, February 12, 2026

Northern New Mexico

In my mind

it begins,

a Pow Wow

of dance,

chant,

drum,

lofting

my Anglo dreams

to heights

of ritual

more ancient

than Columbus.

Despite the festive air,

masked figures,

I don’t

recognize as Native,

badged and holstered,

lurk in the shadows,

beyond

the drum circle—

waiting.

*

I try to sense,

living as I do,

in Indian Country,

what you,

a Native American,

feel like

awakening now

to a face

in the mirror,

that greets

morning’s light,

not with a smile,

but fear

your complexion,

perhaps only a shade

darker than mine,

might find you

in ICE’s

angry grasp,

two steps away

from expulsion.

*

Identity docs,

once sacred sources

of pride,

and connection,

sat vaulted

in your tribal home,

rarely,

if ever,

in need

of exposure,

to the world

outside.

Now,

I’m told,

you dare not leave

the reservation,

without

your paper shields

of origin.

*

Your biggest fear—

how could I not feel

the same—

likely separation

from your children,

an old fear,

dating back

to early last

century,

when federal agents,

as if yesterday,

drag off

Native offspring

to attend

schools,

to acquire

more “whiteness”.

A curriculum

leading often

to forced labor

and early death,

as history’s

numerous

graves attest.

*

I hesitate,

these days,

to stroll

the town square,

birthed

and sustained

by Puebloans

like  yourself,

long before

the arrival

of Europeans.

I reel,

with broken heart,

as ICE grabs you

off the street,

to challenge

your sovereign right,

stretching back

a thousand years,

to call America

home.

 

 

Dick Altman writes in the thin, magical air of Old West’s high desert plains, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in the American Journal of Poetry, Santa Fe Literary Review, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, and others here and abroad.  His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry, published by the New Mexico Museum Press.  Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored over 290 poems, published on four continents.

DIRGE FOR AMERICANS

by Greg Friedman 

shoot first 

lie after 

 

They came in search of virgin 

land but found earth who was 

mother, sky who was father 

to those who walked on, under, 

in harmonies unknown across 

oceans. Unaware in the grasping. 

 

shoot first 

lie after 

 

They told us the stories: patriots 

of liberating pine trees and snakes 

un-tread-upon, wresting liberty  

from plough-wielding hands and  

chained feet brought unwilling, 

un-asked-for to bondage. 

 

shoot first, 

lie after 

 

We learned the lie, detonate it 

annually with fanfare and fire, 

touting tricornered hats and parchment 

promises which excluded souls 

with hypocrisy’s math which 

wove the original sin into 

the flag-fabric of a nation. 

 

shoot first 

lie after 

 

Even the taciturn words of Lincoln, 

mixing the knife-edged speeches of 

Douglass, passed into shades on blood- 

lands, and twisted into stone idols of 

Lee and Jackson, while newer  

promises stonewalled freedom. 

 

shoot first 

lie after 

 

Riders of terror hiding under white  

in black nights un-re-constructed 

the fragile facades of freedmen’s 

bureaus and the warrior-president, 

while carpetbags carried the poisons  

of our Adam’s choices, the apple  

eaten once and choking, choking us still. 

 

shoot first 

lie after 

 

They marched, some walked into water- 

cannon resistance, some earned ropes 

others bullets. But a people progressed, 

overcame, would not be moved until law 

moved and protections etched on stones 

hewn from prophets’ preaching. Alas, 

though, alas, the original grasp of  

the banned fruit reached again to 

roll back black tides of truth, un- 

write the engraved securities and 

spread denial with ballots and faces 

shrouded lest we see hate’s true faces. 

 

Shoot first 

lie after 

 

What mirrors can poets hold up  

to who we are, the maga-faces of 

us, masked and armed with original 

animosity, that snake-fed wish for 

the knowledge of evil without good, 

the forbidden fruit of persistent 

preferences, potent with orange truths, 

to contrive, convince what eyes saw, 

not innocence—but what hate reshapes. 

 

shoot first 

lie after 

 

Our weak words gain spirit in gathered 

places of open and zoomed assemblies 

of naming, crafted calls for hands to 

join and more voices to move between 

the guns and the victims, recognize 

the lies as they spew like Connor’s 

cannons to push us off the streets 

of spoken truths. We speak first, 

second, third and always,  

after  

and until. 

Greg Friedman is a Franciscan priest, author and poet, currently living in Rome, Italy. 

ENDANGERED SPECIES / WHAT DOES IT FEEL LIKE?

by Dick Altman

An Indonesian father of an infant with special needs, who was detained by federal agents at his hospital workplace in Minnesota after his student visa was secretly revoked, will remain in custody after an immigration judge ruled on Thursday that his case can proceed. The day before [Aditya Wahyu] Harsono’s bond hearing, DHS disclosed their evidence against him. Besides stating that his visa had been revoked for the misdemeanor graffiti conviction, for which he paid $100 in restitution, they also mentioned an arrest from 2021 during a protest over the murder of George Floyd. That charge was dismissed. Harsono is Muslim and frequently posts on social media in support of humanitarian relief for Gaza. He also runs a small non-profit, which sells art and merchandise, with proceeds going to organizations aiding Gaza. —The Guardian, April 29, 2025. Peyton Harsono (pictured above) and Madison Weidner have organized a GoFundMe to support Harsono’s family in these dark days.

I dream,

every now and then,

of an army newsreel

the colonel

across the street,

shows

two ten-year-olds,

his daughter and me.

We are old enough,

he says,

quoting Burns,

to witness “man’s

inhumanity to man,”

a phrase lost on us,

until he turns down

the basement lights,

and the 16-mm film

begins to unwind.

 

It opens

on a city street

of old buildings,

older than anything

I know of America.

The sidewalks busy

with baby carriages,

people shopping,

children skipping.

When,

out of a doorway,

two men abruptly

drag a man

into the street.

They punch him,

until he falls

to the ground,

and then begin

to kick him.

We can only stare.

The colonel,

as if reading

our minds,

says

they’re beating him

because he’s Jewish.

And the voiceover

starts to explain.

*

When I awaken,

my mind grinds

incessantly

on the words

endangered species.

Grinds on the video

of a woman in white—

a student protester

of foreign extraction,

here in America—

converged upon

by three men in black,

who arrest her.

A chilling reminder

of the colonel’s

newsreel.

Echoing

across the nation’s

landscape,

across mountain,

prairie and sea.

 

Endangered species.

My mind trembles

over the syllables,

as I imagine them

enclosing themselves

around the laws

and institutions

that nourish

and drive

our democracy.

 

Endangered species.

I strangle on the words,

here in Indian Country,

where a holocaust

nearly drove a people

into extinction.

We have a history,

I say to myself.

Can we,

as a nation,

change course?

I can almost

imagine

a raging knock

at the door,

as I write.

“You and

your words—

they’re coming

with us,”

I hear

a voice yell.

 

And I think

of the eyes

that might read

these thoughts.

And of the lines

and lives

that didn’t survive

during

and between

last century’s

Great Wars.

And I confess—

I fear those eyes.

 

 

Dick Altman writes in the thin, magical air of Old West’s high desert plains, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in the American 

Journal of Poetry, Santa Fe Literary Review, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press,

Split Rock Review, The Ravens Perch, Beyond Words, and others here and abroad. His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry, published by the New Mexico Museum Press. Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored some 250 poems, published on four continents.

SERMON

by Daniel Romo

Abraham begat Isaac; and Isaac begat Jacob; and Jacob begat Judas and his brethren;
And Judas begat Phares and Zara of Thamar; and Phares begat Esrom; and Esrom begat Aram.
—Matthew 1:2-3

The egg begat 
the chicken and 
the farmer begat 
overalls and
the middleman begat 
the supermarket.
 
The coffee begat 
the customer and 
the bean begat 
the roast and 
the desire begat 
the brand.
 
The strawberry begat 
the pickers and 
brown hands begat 
ICE and 
Native Americans begat 
the land.
 
MAGA begat 
the bullies and
an outdated amendment begat 
the gun and
the school shooter begat 
the bodies.
 
The Bible begat 
the commandments and 
scripture begat 
cherry-picking and
nationalism begat 
hypocrisy.
 
Adam begat 
Eve and 
the rib begat 
the barbecue
and the flames begat 
the fire.
 
Injustice begat 
the boycott and 
hope begat
light and 
the day begat 
the struggle.

Daniel Romo's latest book is Bum Knees and Grieving Sunsets.