Migrant Mother

April 10, 2008
I look to the fields
Wind blown earth blurs my vision
I worry for my children
We are dirty
We are tired
We are hungry
My husband lies in the ground
Lungs destroyed by disease
No jobs to be found
We are helpless
We are poor
We are forgotten
I am the face of the Great Depression
Trace the lines of concern on my skin
Rags will only hide them for so long
We are invisible
We are America
We are the haunted past
Will you remember us?

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

Site Feedback