Photograph by Amy Hart
Black Tahoes circle Portland, Memphis,
Chicago, Charlotte. Now us.
Temporary plates. Tinted windows.
Neighbors post lookouts at Costco,
Food Lion, schools. Lowes, Compáre,
wherever people work,
buy chiles, tortillas, frijoles.
Masked police pop up in Instagram.
Rifles, handcuffs, leg irons, Kevlar vests.
They smash car windows, take wallets,
phones, whisk away parents.
No IDs, just Police
emblazoned across their chests.
Soy ciudadano. I am a citizen,
a construction worker explains.
These trabajadores repair our roofs,
replace our water pipes,
lay lines for high speed internet.
Today they stay home. Doors locked.
No shopping. No food.
Terror idles in our parking lots,
hovers on street corners, but a new brew
is beginning to percolate, to bubble up.
A delicious blend of neighbors with signs,
whistles, warnings, food deliveries,
is singing and chanting Vecinos.
Nos vecinos.
Lao Rubert lives in Durham, NC. Her poems are forthcoming—or have appeared—in About Place Journal, Cider Press Review, Litmosphere, Rust & Moth, Spillway, The Avenue, and elsewhere. This poem was inspired by hearing about experiences with ICE in other cities and then living through the experience of the ICE surge in Charlotte and Durham where individuals with no criminal records—including citizens—were arrested and detained. Both communities rallied in support of their neighbors. Rubert holds degrees in English Literature from Duke University and University of Missouri and has spent a career working to reform the criminal legal system. Her web site can be found at laorubert.com.