Photo by Nate Grubbs
POEM BY CLAIRE BUSWELL
[A poem in response to an eyewitness account of an ICE abduction near Seattle on Jan. 25, 2026.]
I lean on the counter of our cramped kitchen
next to the overflowing home-made recycling bin
where my youngest likes to hide magnetic letters,
in my constant losing battle to track all things.
For this moment of reprieve while she naps,
my neck is bent and back hunched as I check
my phone. Making myself small in this corner
of chargers where my husband and I have agreed
to limit our distraction, lest our daughters catch on.
Just a split second, and I’ve gone from negotiating
quiet time on the couch with my 4-year-old
to a 2-year-old boy, a few miles north of us,
strapped in his car seat, ready for daycare. Like a still
life, I picture the clear bag of sliced apples, crackers,
and a juice box by his side. Prepared minutes before
by his loving mama in a kitchen like mine. Her son,
the only reason the masked men didn’t speed off
after grabbing his father.
In light of a Minnesota raid,
and a sleeping baby left abandoned
in a car in subzero temperatures,
this seems almost humane.
“Mama, I need to go potty!”
my daughter calls as she runs past me.
I turn away to hide my brimming tears,
to protect her from all this. Though
in the movement I realize all this
is separating me from her.
This. This small, scared child, alone in a car,
surrounded by flashing lights and armed agents.
He drapes his little body with a white fuzzy blanket.
Pulls it down just below his eyes that dart back and forth,
as he waits for over half an hour. His father, invisible,
mere feet away in an unmarked Dodge Charger.
When a family friend arrives to take him home,
he lights up with chats and smiles. A toddler’s gift
of living in the moment shielding him from this
horrifying moment. His father’s freshly wrapped tamales
and a carton of soup, still hot on the front passenger seat.
“Mama! I’ve finished pooping. It looks like a rocket ship!”
my daughter cries. I push down the lump in my throat
and try to stop shaking, while I wipe my daughter’s sweet
little butt, and we discuss blasting poop into space.
How do we hold all this?
How do we not break?
Editor’s Note: On Jan. 25, 2026, ICE agents near Seattle detained a father who was driving his 2-year-old son to daycare. In the backseat of the man’s car, the toddler sat alone in his car seat for 30 minutes, waiting for someone to pick him up after his father was taken away.
Writer Claire Buswell wrote her poem in response to this news story.
Claire Buswell is a certified life transition coach and leadership consultant. With a background in international development and her own Irish, English, and Dutch roots, she is drawn to themes of identity, belonging, justice, and what makes life meaningful. Buswell lives in Seattle with her husband and two young daughters, who also give her plenty to write about. Learn about her coaching work at: www.clairebuswell.com.