I like the dog.
The dog is nice.
Over and over.
Day after day.
If you want to write
About this dog
You need to tell me more.
I like the dog.
The dog is cute.
Over and over.
Day after day.
Can’t you write
About something else?
Write about your weekend.
I like the dog.
The dog is brown.
Over and over.
Day after day.
Is there anything else
You could write about?
You want me to write
About something else?
You want to know?
You want to know
What happened to me?
He hurt me
Hurt me in the night
My father’s friend
Hurt me in the night
That’s what happened to me.
You want me to write about that?
You know that sign?
The yellow and black one
On the highway as you
Drive north from the border,
The sign with the family
Holding hands and running.
That’s where Maria’s uncle
Died alone, coming north
From the border.
You know that fence?
That’s where the coyote
Abandoned her father
He couldn’t make it over
The others were younger
They ran on, left him
To cross alone.
Her father struggled over
Alone. He hurt his back,
Walked in the night
Alone. He wandered down
A street of stucco homes
Alone. He took a chance.
Chose a door and knocked.
A woman opened, pulled him in,
And handed him the phone.
—Call your family, if you
Have one. Tell them you’ll
Be safe.—
You know that highway?
His son drove south
Alone. Down that highway
To find him, take him home.
And the woman took him
To a hidden corner where
They met up. —If anyone
comes near I am your wife—
she whispered. She hugged his son
—How are you, mijo?—
Then turned to him and whispered
Again—Now kiss me good-bye.
See you soon, mi amor.—
Father and son drove north
Together on that highway
With the yellow and black sign.
In Los Angeles his own wife
And other children waited
For his return. They waited
For them to make it past
That yellow and black sign.
I know you know that fence.
They paid the coyote
Who left him behind
At that fence. They paid
Him what they still owed him
Hoping there would be no trouble.
She shows up
in my classroom,
one day, a tiny
sliver of life.
Wisps of wilted
plumes frame
her eyes, the color
of the river.
Once left behind
on the rancho
by her mother,
she now carries
buoyant hope north.
School is of no use
when she arrives.
She knows no books,
but she knows
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 speaks
of the mud,
how it oozed up
between her toes.
How her feet sank
into the sludge.
She speaks of fear
that wrapped around
her skin like darkness,
of stepping off
into nothing
with only plastic
bags around her arms.
She whispers
of haunting voices
that called her
into the river
as she clung
to the embankment.
In search of her mother
where water and night
become just one,
she sought to keep
her hope afloat.
I watch
the other girls
encircle her,
the wind blowing
through her faded
pink dress,
as her words trace
the path of the water.
Like she-dogs
they shield her
from fly balls
on the playground
and hover close,
as if their presence
could erase that
night, so they could
all forget the
journey north.
is a teacher of English learners and students at-risk in reading. Helping students
discover the magic of language and literacy when they do not believe that they can
learn to read is a true honor for her. She has lived for many years in Latin America
and has three bilingual children. Translating poetry from Spanish to English, writing
children’s music, and performing Latin American music are ways in which she
shares her diverse life with others.
Towner received the Jan Buel Bradley Chapbook Award in 2005, and her poetry will appear
in two upcoming anthologies: Silver Birch Anthology and the Cancer
Poetry Project Anthology.