The Fisherchild 

by RAQUEL VASQUEZ GILLILAND

for Faustino 

One hundred years ago, 
my great-grandfather 
came home from fishing 
and found his father and his mother 
murdered, 
his sisters raped. 

He was a child, 
a Mexican fisherchild. 

I would not exist 
were it not for the fisherly 
whims of children. 

To escape los bandidos 
that killed and raped families 
while children fished, 
the fisherchild traced a sunworn 
path to America,

where he met Ama Rosa, 
where they had Ofelia, 
where my grandfather courted Ofelia 
—though her mother guarded the porch 
with a shotgun— 

where they had Maria Elena, 
who would one day meet my father 
at the long-gone nursery 
on Florida Mango Avenue. 

I would not be here
were it not for a sunworn path
from Mexico to Texas.

Let this path open ever wider
for the fisherchildren to stride in.

Let them arrive
with their fishing rods
on their shoulders,
so when they come home,
arms full of trout,
they will find the round smile of Papá,
the long braids of their sisters,
and the warm voice of Mami, 
telling an almost-lost fairy tale
starring a brave,
brown
fisherchild.