short immigration poems

Three Poems by Demetria Martínez

Demetria Martínez

On A Table

in the waiting room,
Vogue magazine
model no longer
smiles at me,
she glares.
Despite decades
of face creams,
sunscreens,
crow’s feet
ring my eyes,
brown flecks
spot my cheeks.

Despite decades
of advertisements
I am not young.

I am not white.

Consuelo

Now Connie,
like having
her hair cut
too short,
easy to
pronounce
her kindergarten
teacher said.

It will take years
for Connie
to grow
her name
back, to look
in the mirror
and love
what she sees.

For Grandma Maria (who crossed over in 1910, at age 5, with her father, Teodoro Flores)

Juarez, El Paso.
The border
did not swallow
you up
or sink
into your ankles
like fangs.
A train carried you over
the threshold
like a new bride.
No veil
made of razor wire.
Sunlight, brilliant.
Song of the train’s
whistle.
Young, brown,
innocent,
at the birth
of revolution,
history let you
cross with a wave
of the hand.