Los Vecinos

Once in a while we get a submission that’s a perfect fit for an issue, but the deadline to include it has already passed. That’s what happened with Alison Luterman’s poem “Los Vecinos,” which we accepted two weeks after the November issue went to the printer. The poem, about an immigrant neighbor who brings food and healing gifts to the author’s door, is a heartfelt companion to the November interview  between Daniel McDermon and John Washington about open borders and Laurie Smith’s photo essay about migrants seeking entry to the US from Mexico. “Los Vecinos” translates the enormous issue of immigration into a personal story about generosity, community, and resilience. We’re publishing it on the website so you can read it in conversation with the interview and photo essay, which you’ll find both online and in print.  

Take care, and read well,
Nancy Holochwost, Associate Editor

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Teresa, our Mexican neighbor,
climbs our porch steps on arthritic legs,
carrying a plate of fresh tamales,
still warm, wrapped in cloth,
because they’re having a cookout in their yard
with all the tias and grandbabies
and we’re included in the golden circle
of familia, through no virtue
of our own, yet here she is again at our door
with a plate of something delicious, or a big plastic bag
filled with nopales from the edible pads
of the giant cactus in their yard,
which she has skinned and cubed and boiled
in salted water. They’re slippery as okra
and tart as lemons, and she swears they will cure
a long list of ailments, including
but not limited to cancer, high blood pressure,
diabetes . . . Standing on our porch, leaning
against the railing, she enumerates
the benefits while I smile and nod, “Sí, sí, gracias . . .”
My friend who lives in a rich neighborhood
says she’s seen ICE patrolling, looking for gardeners
and maids escaping over the back fences of Marin.
They’re tearing apart families like clumps
of seedlings, uprooting whole delicate
ecosystems, but what they don’t
understand is the mycelian nature
of kinship, how love is a weed
that travels across borders in a bird’s belly
and pops up waving its arms, no matter the law.
Our block resounds with spangled mariachi tunes
all summer long, and I’d be lying if I said
I wasn’t jealous some evenings,
lying awake while parties go on around us,
because this land is their land, and this devotion
is tough and joyous, and Teresa can’t read
the red card that says “Know Your Rights”
in English and Spanish, nor understand
how I make a living, but she knows
what to do with the guava tree
growing along our driveway, whose leaves
are medicinal in dozens of ways—whose leaves,
as the Bible says, are given for the healing of the nations.

This poem will appear in the February 2026 issue of The Sun.