A Roadblock in Chiapas
written by: Deirdre Carney
You were first to be ordered off the bus
At that roadside block
On the way to Oaxaca.
Serious and quiet,
You turned to the man at the door
To confirm that it was so.
He nodded, young himself,
With gentle, sad eyes for a soldier.
You stood in the searing air
And barely signalled
To the stream of mostly men
All slim, stricken, obedient,
As they left the bus
Outside the station
Of the Guardia Nacional.
You removed the back of your phone
And handed over ID.
The woman in uniform
Shook her head, no.
With the others you claimed your bag
Grave, silent, all you had brought
For the promised land
In the dust at your feet.
The man beside you, a family man,
Held his son in his arms,
Breathed in the scent of the hair
On his tousled, sleeping head.
He did not see
The shoe slipping, slipping
From the little foot.
You bent and your captors bowed.
You are the one I remember most
From the roadblock on the way to Oaxaca.
Weary, stunned, defeated.
Yet in the midst of your catastrophe
Out of the corner of your eye
You saw a dusty shoe fall
And in your decency
Stooped to perform a human act.
- A Roadblock in Chiapas - May 26, 2025
- Spotlight On Writers – Deirdre Carney - April 5, 2025
- Fair Isle - February 27, 2025
