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Unaccompanied
New York Times Bestselling Author of Solito
"Every line resonates with a wind that crosses oceans."—Jamaal May
"Zamora's work is real life turned into myth and myth made real life." —Glappitnova
Javier Zamora was nine years old when he traveled unaccompanied 4,000 miles, across multiple borders, from El Salvador to the United States to be reunited with his parents. This dramatic and hope-filled poetry debut humanizes the highly charged and polarizing rhetoric of border-crossing; assesses borderland politics, race, and immigration on a profoundly personal level; and simultaneously remembers and imagines a birth country that's been left behind.
Through an unflinching gaze, plainspoken diction, and a combination of Spanish and English, Unaccompanied crosses rugged terrain where families are lost and reunited, coyotes lead migrants astray, and "the thin white man let us drink from a hose / while pointing his shotgun."
From "Let Me Try Again":
He knew we weren't Mexican.
He must've remembered his family
coming over the border, or the border
coming over them, because he drove us
to the border and told us next time, rest
at least five days, don't trust anyone calling
themselves coyotes, bring more tortillas, sardines,
Alhambra. He knew we would try again.
And again—like everyone does.
Javier Zamora was born in El Salvador and immigrated to the United States at the age of nine. He earned a BA at UC-Berkeley, an MFA at New York University, and is a 2016–2018 Wallace Stegner Fellow at Stanford University.
"Every line resonates with a wind that crosses oceans."—Jamaal May
"Zamora's work is real life turned into myth and myth made real life." —Glappitnova
Javier Zamora was nine years old when he traveled unaccompanied 4,000 miles, across multiple borders, from El Salvador to the United States to be reunited with his parents. This dramatic and hope-filled poetry debut humanizes the highly charged and polarizing rhetoric of border-crossing; assesses borderland politics, race, and immigration on a profoundly personal level; and simultaneously remembers and imagines a birth country that's been left behind.
Through an unflinching gaze, plainspoken diction, and a combination of Spanish and English, Unaccompanied crosses rugged terrain where families are lost and reunited, coyotes lead migrants astray, and "the thin white man let us drink from a hose / while pointing his shotgun."
From "Let Me Try Again":
He knew we weren't Mexican.
He must've remembered his family
coming over the border, or the border
coming over them, because he drove us
to the border and told us next time, rest
at least five days, don't trust anyone calling
themselves coyotes, bring more tortillas, sardines,
Alhambra. He knew we would try again.
And again—like everyone does.
Javier Zamora was born in El Salvador and immigrated to the United States at the age of nine. He earned a BA at UC-Berkeley, an MFA at New York University, and is a 2016–2018 Wallace Stegner Fellow at Stanford University.
94 pages, Paperback
First published September 12, 2017
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4496 people want to read
About the author
Javier Zamora
10 books1,430 followersJavier Zamora was born in El Salvador in 1990. His father fled the country when he was one, and his mother when he was about to turn five. Both parents' migrations were caused by the U.S.-funded Salvadoran Civil War. When he was nine Javier migrated through Guatemala, Mexico, and the Sonoran Desert. His debut poetry collection, Unaccompanied, explores the impact of the war and immigration on his family. Zamora has been a Stegner Fellow at Stanford and a Radcliffe Fellow at Harvard and holds fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Poetry Foundation.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 190 reviews
February 16, 2020
At the end of January, I finished reading American Dirt. If you want to know my thoughts on that, you’ll have to look elsewhere, because this short review is dedicated to a book of compelling poetry by Javier Zamora titled Unaccompanied. I was not done with my quest to learn more intimately about the U.S-Mexico border crisis quite yet. Not having time to squeeze in a heftier book this month, this slim collection fit the bill quite nicely. Plus, I had a hunch that poetry would elicit more of an emotional response to the issue, and it did.
Zamora was born in El Salvador in 1990, during the Salvadoran Civil War. Both his parents fled to the United States at separate times before he had reached the age of five. At nine years old, Zamora left his beloved grandmother behind to join his parents in the U.S. His poetry spans his time in El Salvador, his flight through Mexico with a group of migrants, and his escape into this country. I don’t often pick up poetry, though I should. It’s almost always a rewarding experience. The writing in this collection was gritty and visceral, evoking the terror, anger and longing of a young boy now turned young man. I saw the beauty and violence of his home country and the dangers and difficulties of crossing borders. I could feel the ache to be with those he loved and left behind, and the feeling of not truly belonging anywhere. Some of the poems are written from the point of view of various relatives of Zamora, his parents, his grandmother. Some are dedicated to other family members and friends.
I always find it difficult to review poetry. It’s easier for me to end with a sample, so readers can get a better sense of the writer’s voice. Here’s one of my favorites:
"Exiliados"
We didn’t hold typhoons or tropics in our hands.
I didn’t reach across the table on our first date
at Cornelia Street Café. In my humid pockets,
my fists were old tennis balls thrown to the stray dog
of love bouncing toward the Hudson down
to South Ferry. We didn’t hold hands in that cold
October wind, but the waves witnessed our promise
to return to my cratered-deforested homeland,
and you to your parents’, sometime in the future.
Then, us in the subway at 2 a.m. Oh the things I dreamed:
a kiss to the back of your neck, collarbone, belly button, there–
to kneel and bow my head, then return to the mole
next to your lips and taste your latitude together.
Instead, I went home, you touched my cheek,
it was enough. I stood, remembering what it’s like
to stand on desert dirt wishing stars would fall
as rain, on that huge dark country ahead of me.
Zamora was born in El Salvador in 1990, during the Salvadoran Civil War. Both his parents fled to the United States at separate times before he had reached the age of five. At nine years old, Zamora left his beloved grandmother behind to join his parents in the U.S. His poetry spans his time in El Salvador, his flight through Mexico with a group of migrants, and his escape into this country. I don’t often pick up poetry, though I should. It’s almost always a rewarding experience. The writing in this collection was gritty and visceral, evoking the terror, anger and longing of a young boy now turned young man. I saw the beauty and violence of his home country and the dangers and difficulties of crossing borders. I could feel the ache to be with those he loved and left behind, and the feeling of not truly belonging anywhere. Some of the poems are written from the point of view of various relatives of Zamora, his parents, his grandmother. Some are dedicated to other family members and friends.
I always find it difficult to review poetry. It’s easier for me to end with a sample, so readers can get a better sense of the writer’s voice. Here’s one of my favorites:
"Exiliados"
We didn’t hold typhoons or tropics in our hands.
I didn’t reach across the table on our first date
at Cornelia Street Café. In my humid pockets,
my fists were old tennis balls thrown to the stray dog
of love bouncing toward the Hudson down
to South Ferry. We didn’t hold hands in that cold
October wind, but the waves witnessed our promise
to return to my cratered-deforested homeland,
and you to your parents’, sometime in the future.
Then, us in the subway at 2 a.m. Oh the things I dreamed:
a kiss to the back of your neck, collarbone, belly button, there–
to kneel and bow my head, then return to the mole
next to your lips and taste your latitude together.
Instead, I went home, you touched my cheek,
it was enough. I stood, remembering what it’s like
to stand on desert dirt wishing stars would fall
as rain, on that huge dark country ahead of me.
April 27, 2019
This collection focuses author's personal experience as a child, fleeing the violence in his home, El Salvador (much of which violence was supported by the U.S.) and coming to the U.S. to reunite with his parents who left when he was even younger. There are poems that deal directly with the hardships and terror of trying to enter a country illegally as well as the missing of his home that he is being forced to leave.
Many of the other poems are in the voice of Zamora's relatives, creating a fuller picture of the world from which he is escaping.
This is a timely book, although it is worth reading just for the power of the poems, the emotional content and the forms it takes. It's hard to believe that anyone could read this and not be moved to pity for this child seeking only to be safe, enduring great hardship for the sake of family and peace.
I take for granted the life I have because...well, it is, I suppose, human nature to do so. But this book made me aware again of how privileged I am and how so many people throughout the world live with systemic violence and terror for their lives and safety. The violence enduring by many is vividly and painfully portrayed in this book as well as the humanity of those suffering and their desire, their need, to find a safe haven.
A painful but necessary book, full of outstanding work.
Many of the other poems are in the voice of Zamora's relatives, creating a fuller picture of the world from which he is escaping.
This is a timely book, although it is worth reading just for the power of the poems, the emotional content and the forms it takes. It's hard to believe that anyone could read this and not be moved to pity for this child seeking only to be safe, enduring great hardship for the sake of family and peace.
I take for granted the life I have because...well, it is, I suppose, human nature to do so. But this book made me aware again of how privileged I am and how so many people throughout the world live with systemic violence and terror for their lives and safety. The violence enduring by many is vividly and painfully portrayed in this book as well as the humanity of those suffering and their desire, their need, to find a safe haven.
A painful but necessary book, full of outstanding work.
August 8, 2018
SIX WORD REVIEW: Will kick down any wall built.
September 25, 2021
When I went into this I didn't know it was poetry. It's hard to write a review on poetry when my expertise on reading is rarely in this genre. I felt the poems were powerful and well written. A voice of fleeing a country from violence and poverty.
November 2, 2020
I don't read enough poetry to write the review that this volume deserves. Zamora's poems are raw, emotional, gutting, and quietly triumphant, and I hope to read more from him in the future.
March 19, 2018
Wonderful collection of poems. I enjoyed the walk through a different life.
Read
October 3, 2021Relentlessly bleak and violent. I read this to learn and understand, but I took no pleasure from the experience. I cannot devalue the writer's experience, his journey or words by quantifying the book with a star rating — it's profound and beautifully written — but it left me deeply sad and deflated.
March 13, 2020
This unique book of poems was written by a man who at 9 years old, crossed the border between Mexico and the US to reunite with his parents. His home country of El Salvador was in shambles and unsafe after generations of violence. He had been living with his grandmother when he made the decision to leave and what follows is heart wrenching. His love for his home country shines through in this collection. I especially love the poems where his writes about his Estero (or estuary) with the most beautiful language. The migrant experience is an important one to empathize with and try to understand as so many people are facing its harsh realities today. I’m glad for this voice that helps people like me get a glimpse into what life is like as a migrant.
July 11, 2021
there are some gorgeous glimmers to be found here:
All my children / learned the names of seasons / from songs. Tonight, leaves fall. / There’s no autumn here. When you mist / into tomorrow’s dawn, at the shore / of somewhere, listen to this conch. / Don’t lose me.
July 13, 2025
“You don’t need more than food, a roof, and clothes on your back. I’d add Mom’s warmth, the need for war to stop”
July 5, 2023
Five years before writing Solito, about his journey as an unaccompanied nine-year-old refugee from El Salvador to the U.S., Zamora published this award-winning collection of poems covering some of the same ground (literally). The poems are like fragments of the whole…hard to make sense out of even having read Solito, but then perhaps I’m being too literal. Still, Zamora’s experiences are bone-chilling, and his story is an important one.
Read
June 9, 2025Should be required reading
April 24, 2018
A book that speaks to the Zamora’s experience of crossing multiple borders from El Salvador to the United States at nine years old to be reunited with his parents, Unaccompanied is a collection populated by deserts, border violence, a family’s desperate claim to survive, and the conjuring up and remembrance of a country left behind.
Javier Zamora’s Unaccompanied asks: Is fleeing from danger a crime? Is being driven by spotlights and vans into desert trees and into hiding a crime? The government says yes. Unaccompanied begs to differ.
"It was dusk for kilometers and bats in the lavender sky,
like spiders when a fly is caught, began to appear.
And there, not the promised land but barbwire and barbwire
with nothing growing under it. I tried to fly that dusk
after a bat said la sangre del saguaro nos seduce. Sometimes
I wake and my throat is dry, so I drive to botanical gardens
to search for red fruits at the top of saguaros, the ones
at dusk I threw rocks at for the sake of hunger...”
Zamora’s stunning collection, sprinkled with some Spanish, is deceptively prosaic. In Unaccompanied, the politics of border-crossing take a backseat to the brutal realities that such a journey would entail. There is hunger, there is thirst, there is the saguaro, and bats. There are fruits. There is desert-found kindness among strangers. There are tight spaces: white vans and boats to travel in, and cells when found and captured.
Some poems take place across the border, where the American Dream remains elusive and there are a different set of challenges. The silences and metaphysical speculations around being undocumented haunts the speaker of these poems. In “The Book I Made With a Counselor My First Week of School” Zamora writes:
"His grandma made the best pupusas, the counselor wrote next to
Stick-figure Abuelita"
And next to a drawing of yucca plants:
"Javier saw a dead coyote animal, which stank and had flies over it.
I keep this book in an old shoebox underneath the bed. She asked in Spanish,
I just smiled, didn’t tell her, no animal, I knew that man."
As in border crossings, these poems are peregrinations by night and through darkness. They echo in a need of survival and a fear of ambush most of us will likely never experience. The longest poem in Unaccompanied is probably my favorite. Titled “June 10, 1999,” it tells of a harrowing border passage, of finding one’s way, and of being lost, regardless, after arrival:
"we were lost and didn’t know which star
was north what was east west we all
dropped out of the van too soon to remember
someone said the sun rose east we circled
so much we had no maps and the guide we paid
twisted his ankle as slowing us down
[...]
I didn’t recognize Dad
different from pictures
he remembers the smell
shit piss dust in your hair
he says now
crying
Mom had a bag with Nikes
Levi’s Star Wars
Episode One shirt
I left my ripped clothes
inside a Ross fitting room
I’m tired of writing the fence the desert
the van picked us up
took me to parents
I’m tired it’s always that."
I imagine at times there must be a literary alignment of stars between the State and the Poet, so that a Poet’s work may respond in real time to a State’s injurious policy, or so goes our desire. The truth is that books outlast the present moment, and they survive by their own truths. There are things about crossing the border many of us cannot know and cannot imagine. In this collection, the search for home is both a physical and an emotional one, and finding one's bearings grows toward the past — in the case of this book, coming to terms with an abandoned, forlorn Salvador, and a grandmother left behind. Unaccompanied is a courageous offering.
Javier Zamora’s Unaccompanied asks: Is fleeing from danger a crime? Is being driven by spotlights and vans into desert trees and into hiding a crime? The government says yes. Unaccompanied begs to differ.
"It was dusk for kilometers and bats in the lavender sky,
like spiders when a fly is caught, began to appear.
And there, not the promised land but barbwire and barbwire
with nothing growing under it. I tried to fly that dusk
after a bat said la sangre del saguaro nos seduce. Sometimes
I wake and my throat is dry, so I drive to botanical gardens
to search for red fruits at the top of saguaros, the ones
at dusk I threw rocks at for the sake of hunger...”
Zamora’s stunning collection, sprinkled with some Spanish, is deceptively prosaic. In Unaccompanied, the politics of border-crossing take a backseat to the brutal realities that such a journey would entail. There is hunger, there is thirst, there is the saguaro, and bats. There are fruits. There is desert-found kindness among strangers. There are tight spaces: white vans and boats to travel in, and cells when found and captured.
Some poems take place across the border, where the American Dream remains elusive and there are a different set of challenges. The silences and metaphysical speculations around being undocumented haunts the speaker of these poems. In “The Book I Made With a Counselor My First Week of School” Zamora writes:
"His grandma made the best pupusas, the counselor wrote next to
Stick-figure Abuelita"
And next to a drawing of yucca plants:
"Javier saw a dead coyote animal, which stank and had flies over it.
I keep this book in an old shoebox underneath the bed. She asked in Spanish,
I just smiled, didn’t tell her, no animal, I knew that man."
As in border crossings, these poems are peregrinations by night and through darkness. They echo in a need of survival and a fear of ambush most of us will likely never experience. The longest poem in Unaccompanied is probably my favorite. Titled “June 10, 1999,” it tells of a harrowing border passage, of finding one’s way, and of being lost, regardless, after arrival:
"we were lost and didn’t know which star
was north what was east west we all
dropped out of the van too soon to remember
someone said the sun rose east we circled
so much we had no maps and the guide we paid
twisted his ankle as slowing us down
[...]
I didn’t recognize Dad
different from pictures
he remembers the smell
shit piss dust in your hair
he says now
crying
Mom had a bag with Nikes
Levi’s Star Wars
Episode One shirt
I left my ripped clothes
inside a Ross fitting room
I’m tired of writing the fence the desert
the van picked us up
took me to parents
I’m tired it’s always that."
I imagine at times there must be a literary alignment of stars between the State and the Poet, so that a Poet’s work may respond in real time to a State’s injurious policy, or so goes our desire. The truth is that books outlast the present moment, and they survive by their own truths. There are things about crossing the border many of us cannot know and cannot imagine. In this collection, the search for home is both a physical and an emotional one, and finding one's bearings grows toward the past — in the case of this book, coming to terms with an abandoned, forlorn Salvador, and a grandmother left behind. Unaccompanied is a courageous offering.
July 26, 2020
Zamora’s first full-length poetry collection arrives at a very crucial moment for our country. The wall depicted on the cover reflects both our president’s words and what separates a young boy from his parents. The material appears to be heavily autobiographical, or biographical about his other family members. This gives US readers, who may be unfamiliar with El Salvador’s brutal war, an introduction to how that country has been torn apart and affected across time.
Immigration, both its causes and effects, is the big theme here. The narrator, a Salvadorian immigrant to the US at 9 years old, is neither fully here nor there: “I’ll never be a citizen. I’ll never / scrub clothes with pumice stones over the big cement tub / under the almond trees” (“To Abuelita Neli” 3). There are numerous poems dedicated to the act of border crossing, and each is powerful in different ways. “Let Me Try Again” is sampled on the back cover, and speaks to how many people, including those in law enforcement, have family members who have (or will) attempt a border crossing into the US: “He must’ve remembered his family / over the border, / or the border coming over them, / because he drove us to the border / and told us / next time, rest at least five days, / don’t trust anyone calling themselves coyotes, / bring more tortillas, sardines, Alhambra. / He knew we would try again / and again / like everyone does” (62).
We get a variety of perspectives from different members of a family (a young boy, his parents at different ages, as well as his extended family). El Salvador’s war looms large, as the shadow it has cast stretches across generations and borders. Military violence, and how to live with family members who inflicted that violence, is an on-going question: “He’s chased us / to this country that trained him to stay quiet / when ‘his boss’ put prisoners in black bags, / then pushed them from the truck, ‘for everyone to see / what happens to bad people here’” (“Nocturne” 70); “My mother, then nine years old, found María in the public latrines” (“For Isreal and María de los Ángeles” 34).
The big gem is “June 10, 1999,” which closes the book. It’s a 12-page poem that kind of sums up all the poems that have come before. Like any life-changing event, especially those coming at a young age, the narrator cannot entirely get over, move past, his border-crossing experience.
In terms of theme, Zamora really hits the nail on the head. We get a ton of different angles on immigration. I also love the incorporation of Roque Dalton’s verses as intertitles—hopefully this will draw further attention to that very deserving poet from the last century.
However, there is a ton of overlap, in terms of content, between poems. Many of the same events appear several times throughout the book. I can understand gives us a new understanding of these events, but I also would have enjoyed learning about some new material. What I am trying to say is that, politically, this book is 5-star. Poetically, I’d say it’s more of a 4-star.
This is only Zamora’s first book though, and he is quite young. I really look forward to seeing what he releases in the upcoming years.
Immigration, both its causes and effects, is the big theme here. The narrator, a Salvadorian immigrant to the US at 9 years old, is neither fully here nor there: “I’ll never be a citizen. I’ll never / scrub clothes with pumice stones over the big cement tub / under the almond trees” (“To Abuelita Neli” 3). There are numerous poems dedicated to the act of border crossing, and each is powerful in different ways. “Let Me Try Again” is sampled on the back cover, and speaks to how many people, including those in law enforcement, have family members who have (or will) attempt a border crossing into the US: “He must’ve remembered his family / over the border, / or the border coming over them, / because he drove us to the border / and told us / next time, rest at least five days, / don’t trust anyone calling themselves coyotes, / bring more tortillas, sardines, Alhambra. / He knew we would try again / and again / like everyone does” (62).
We get a variety of perspectives from different members of a family (a young boy, his parents at different ages, as well as his extended family). El Salvador’s war looms large, as the shadow it has cast stretches across generations and borders. Military violence, and how to live with family members who inflicted that violence, is an on-going question: “He’s chased us / to this country that trained him to stay quiet / when ‘his boss’ put prisoners in black bags, / then pushed them from the truck, ‘for everyone to see / what happens to bad people here’” (“Nocturne” 70); “My mother, then nine years old, found María in the public latrines” (“For Isreal and María de los Ángeles” 34).
The big gem is “June 10, 1999,” which closes the book. It’s a 12-page poem that kind of sums up all the poems that have come before. Like any life-changing event, especially those coming at a young age, the narrator cannot entirely get over, move past, his border-crossing experience.
In terms of theme, Zamora really hits the nail on the head. We get a ton of different angles on immigration. I also love the incorporation of Roque Dalton’s verses as intertitles—hopefully this will draw further attention to that very deserving poet from the last century.
However, there is a ton of overlap, in terms of content, between poems. Many of the same events appear several times throughout the book. I can understand gives us a new understanding of these events, but I also would have enjoyed learning about some new material. What I am trying to say is that, politically, this book is 5-star. Poetically, I’d say it’s more of a 4-star.
This is only Zamora’s first book though, and he is quite young. I really look forward to seeing what he releases in the upcoming years.
February 9, 2020
"Like tonight, when I wish you made it
easier to love you, Salvador. Make it easier
to never have to risk our lives." from the poem "El Salvador"
A nice book that documents one man's life in between his family's history and journey to his parents in the United States. I was anticipating this book because growing-up I was very close to a family from El Salvador. I had not had the knowledge to ask why they were in America then, but of coure now I know it was because of the Salvadoran Civil War. Many Salvadorans migrated to my hometown through the 1980s (ironic, since the United States was fueling the war in that country), and I went to school with quite a few. Many things have changed then but, given the recent uprooting of many of those refugees by the Trump Administration it is a relevant text.
In a way, this book is in a dialogue with The Country Between Us. Where that book ends, this book picks-up on the other side of the Salvadoran Civil War and what came after it. I'm not sure Zamora ever read Forché, but it is interesting to see how both of them looked at how that conflict impacted El Salvador and each poets' lives.
The poems in the book captures the life of Zamora and his family from the war to the rise of the gangs and his flight to the United States and his rough start in the country. These are very personal, confessional poems and I understand why they are imporatnt, but I read these poems and felt the same feeling I felt when I read One Day I Will Write About This Place: A Memoir. I wanted to like this book more than I did, but I felt that the story this book was telling and how it was telling them--for me--did not sync up.
Of course, the story doesn't end in this book. Because of the end of the TPS, he was forced to go back for five weeks.
easier to love you, Salvador. Make it easier
to never have to risk our lives." from the poem "El Salvador"
A nice book that documents one man's life in between his family's history and journey to his parents in the United States. I was anticipating this book because growing-up I was very close to a family from El Salvador. I had not had the knowledge to ask why they were in America then, but of coure now I know it was because of the Salvadoran Civil War. Many Salvadorans migrated to my hometown through the 1980s (ironic, since the United States was fueling the war in that country), and I went to school with quite a few. Many things have changed then but, given the recent uprooting of many of those refugees by the Trump Administration it is a relevant text.
In a way, this book is in a dialogue with The Country Between Us. Where that book ends, this book picks-up on the other side of the Salvadoran Civil War and what came after it. I'm not sure Zamora ever read Forché, but it is interesting to see how both of them looked at how that conflict impacted El Salvador and each poets' lives.
The poems in the book captures the life of Zamora and his family from the war to the rise of the gangs and his flight to the United States and his rough start in the country. These are very personal, confessional poems and I understand why they are imporatnt, but I read these poems and felt the same feeling I felt when I read One Day I Will Write About This Place: A Memoir. I wanted to like this book more than I did, but I felt that the story this book was telling and how it was telling them--for me--did not sync up.
Of course, the story doesn't end in this book. Because of the end of the TPS, he was forced to go back for five weeks.
February 8, 2020
A good read by a wonderful poet. Lots of these poems are very narrative. The collection made me think of memoir. Recently I learned that Zamora was working on a novel-in-verse and I was pleased to hear that for a number of reasons. By the time I finished reading Unaccompanied, I could see why the need for a longer project is necessary. Looking forward to reading more from this writer.
July 22, 2024
I starting reading Javier Zamora's Unaccompanied the same day as the latest executive order was signed, limiting border crossings, after bipartisan legislation was tanked for no other reason than petty partisan politics. Even if you don't regularly read poetry, which I can't say I regularly do, you take something away from its creative form, all the more so when it focuses on a powerful topic, such as people fleeing a war-torn country in search of a better life.
If someone asked me if I've ever read Javier Zamora, I fear the conversation would go something like this...
A: Yes, I've read his poems.
B: Did you like them?
A: I tried to understand them.
B: So, no. Not really.
Unaccompanied was powerful, but I don't think I fully appreciated the collection because I couldn't fully understand it, be that for cultural reasons or just given its form complexity. For me to fully appreciate poetry, it needs to be understandable. I found several scenes and stanzas in Unaccompanied very beautiful, but they were fleeting.
What follows are a few of those that have stayed with me...
El Salvador
"Tonight, how I wish you made it easier to love you, Salvador.
Make it easier to never have to risk our lives."
Cassette Tape
"I won't marry for papers.I might marry for papers."
"You don't need more than food,
a roof, and clothes on your back.
I'd add Mom's warmth, the need
for war to stop."
Dancing in Buses
*Dramatic transition from describing people dancing while on a bus headed north, such as...
"Pretend the boom box
blasts over your shoulder. Raise
your hands in the air. Twist them
as if picking limes. Look
to the right as if crossing streets."
To...
"They're shooting. Duck
under the seat, and
don't breathe.
Hands behind your head.
Drop down.
Look at the ground.
Roll over
Face the mouth of the barrel.
Do the protect-face-with-hand.
Don't scream."
Exiliados
"I stood, remembering what it's like
to stand on desert dirt wishing stars would fall
as rain, on that huge dark country ahead of me."
2.5 out of 5
If someone asked me if I've ever read Javier Zamora, I fear the conversation would go something like this...
A: Yes, I've read his poems.
B: Did you like them?
A: I tried to understand them.
B: So, no. Not really.
Unaccompanied was powerful, but I don't think I fully appreciated the collection because I couldn't fully understand it, be that for cultural reasons or just given its form complexity. For me to fully appreciate poetry, it needs to be understandable. I found several scenes and stanzas in Unaccompanied very beautiful, but they were fleeting.
What follows are a few of those that have stayed with me...
El Salvador
"Tonight, how I wish you made it easier to love you, Salvador.
Make it easier to never have to risk our lives."
Cassette Tape
"I won't marry for papers.
"You don't need more than food,
a roof, and clothes on your back.
I'd add Mom's warmth, the need
for war to stop."
Dancing in Buses
*Dramatic transition from describing people dancing while on a bus headed north, such as...
"Pretend the boom box
blasts over your shoulder. Raise
your hands in the air. Twist them
as if picking limes. Look
to the right as if crossing streets."
To...
"They're shooting. Duck
under the seat, and
don't breathe.
Hands behind your head.
Drop down.
Look at the ground.
Roll over
Face the mouth of the barrel.
Do the protect-face-with-hand.
Don't scream."
Exiliados
"I stood, remembering what it's like
to stand on desert dirt wishing stars would fall
as rain, on that huge dark country ahead of me."
2.5 out of 5
April 26, 2021
wish i enjoyed this more, but i'll blame it on assigned reading and finals season.
October 1, 2024
"This is my 14th time pressing roses in fake passports/for each year I haven't climbed maranon trees."
September 21, 2017
‘Real life turned into myth and myth made real life’
Poet Javier Zamora was born in the small El Salvadoran coastal fishing town of La Herradura and immigrated to the United States at the age of nine, joining his parents in California. He earned a BA at the University of California-Berkeley and an MFA at New York University and is a 2016-2018 Wallace Stegner Fellow at Stanford University.
Javier’s debut UNACCOMPANIED assesses borderland politics, race, and immigration on a profoundly personal level, and simultaneously remembers and imagines a birth-country that’s been left behind. His poems cross rugged terrain where families are lost and reunited, coyotes lead migrants astray, and "the thin white man let us drink from a hose/while pointing his shotgun."
In this tenuous time of attention to immigration when so many of us yearn for the new residents of this country to find promise and a happy life instead of the constant over-the-shoulder shudder of being ‘watched’, this collection of poems by a very gifted young artist helps to shed light on both sides of the wall. Perhaps his thoughts will help tear it down permanently – or at least offer hope to those ‘in transition’. Some examples follow.
How I Learned to Walk
Calláte. Don’t say it out loud: the color of his hair,
the sour odor of his skin, the way they say
his stomach rose when he slept. I have
done nothing, said nothing. I p**s in the corner
of the room, the outhouse is far, I think
orange blossoms call me to eat them. I fling rocks
at bats hanging midway up almond trees.
I’ve skinned lizards. I’ve been bored. It’s like
that time I told my friend Luz to rub her lice
against my hair. I wanted to wear a plastic bag,
to smell of gasoline, to shave my hair, to feel
something like his hands on my head.
When I clutch pillows, I think of him. If he sleeps
facedown like I do. If he can tie strings
to the backs of dragonflies. I’ve heard
of how I used to run to him. His hair still
smelling of fish, gasoline, and seaweed. It’s how
I learned to walk they say. Calláte. If I step
out this door, I want to know nothing will take me.
Not the van he ran to. Not the man he paid to take him.
Mamá Pati was asleep when he left. People say
somehow I walked across our cornfield
at dawn, a few steps behind. I must have seen him
get in that van. I was two. I sat behind a ceiba tree,
waiting. No one could find me.
Instructions for My Funeral
Don’t burn me in no steel furnace, burn me
in Abuelita’s garden. Wrap me in bluewhite-
and-blue [ a la mierda patriotismo ]
Douse me in the cheapest gin. Whatever you do,
don’t judge my home. Cut my bones
with a machete till I’m finest dust
[wrap my pito in panties so I dream of pisar]
Please, no priests, no crosses, no flowers.
Steal a flask and stash me inside. Blast music,
dress to impress. Please be drunk
[miss work y pisen otra vez]
Bust out the drums the army strums.
Bust out the guitars guerrilleros strummed
and listen to the war inside [please
no american mierdas] Carouse the procession
dancing to the pier. Moor me
in a motorboat [de veras que sea una lancha]
driven by a nine-year-old
son of a fisherman. Scud to the center
of the Estero de Jaltepec. Read
“Como Tú,” and toss pieces of bread.
As the motorboat circles,
open the flask, so I’m breathed like a jacaranda,
like a flor de mayo,
like an alcatraz—then, forget me
and let me drift.
Montage With Mangos, Volcano, And Flooded Streets
I helped Abuelita pluck the white flor de izote from stems
to put in a bowl to then drop in the pan
to mix with eggs,
there’s no way Mom, younger than I am now
and in California like I am now,
there’s no way she knew my technique:
grab stalk and pull toward belly,
bowl between legs, petals like rice
from opened burlap.
I don’t want to go on.
I’m older than Dad then,
for the longest time I wanted to go back,
but going back won’t wake Mom’s hand
slapping my butt
when I’d run out the kitchen
to climb the mango tree,
branch by branch,
up six meters to watch the volcano’s peak fit in my hand—
lie to me. Say I can go back.
Say I��ve created smoke and no rain.
¿What was it I saw up there?
It’s almost 20 years and still,
I can’t keep mangos from falling
six meters down,
to where dogs lick what my aunts,
Mom, Dad, and I, still
cannot.
Heart wrenchingly beautiful poetry that must be read - especially now. Javier has a brilliant future.
Poet Javier Zamora was born in the small El Salvadoran coastal fishing town of La Herradura and immigrated to the United States at the age of nine, joining his parents in California. He earned a BA at the University of California-Berkeley and an MFA at New York University and is a 2016-2018 Wallace Stegner Fellow at Stanford University.
Javier’s debut UNACCOMPANIED assesses borderland politics, race, and immigration on a profoundly personal level, and simultaneously remembers and imagines a birth-country that’s been left behind. His poems cross rugged terrain where families are lost and reunited, coyotes lead migrants astray, and "the thin white man let us drink from a hose/while pointing his shotgun."
In this tenuous time of attention to immigration when so many of us yearn for the new residents of this country to find promise and a happy life instead of the constant over-the-shoulder shudder of being ‘watched’, this collection of poems by a very gifted young artist helps to shed light on both sides of the wall. Perhaps his thoughts will help tear it down permanently – or at least offer hope to those ‘in transition’. Some examples follow.
How I Learned to Walk
Calláte. Don’t say it out loud: the color of his hair,
the sour odor of his skin, the way they say
his stomach rose when he slept. I have
done nothing, said nothing. I p**s in the corner
of the room, the outhouse is far, I think
orange blossoms call me to eat them. I fling rocks
at bats hanging midway up almond trees.
I’ve skinned lizards. I’ve been bored. It’s like
that time I told my friend Luz to rub her lice
against my hair. I wanted to wear a plastic bag,
to smell of gasoline, to shave my hair, to feel
something like his hands on my head.
When I clutch pillows, I think of him. If he sleeps
facedown like I do. If he can tie strings
to the backs of dragonflies. I’ve heard
of how I used to run to him. His hair still
smelling of fish, gasoline, and seaweed. It’s how
I learned to walk they say. Calláte. If I step
out this door, I want to know nothing will take me.
Not the van he ran to. Not the man he paid to take him.
Mamá Pati was asleep when he left. People say
somehow I walked across our cornfield
at dawn, a few steps behind. I must have seen him
get in that van. I was two. I sat behind a ceiba tree,
waiting. No one could find me.
Instructions for My Funeral
Don’t burn me in no steel furnace, burn me
in Abuelita’s garden. Wrap me in bluewhite-
and-blue [ a la mierda patriotismo ]
Douse me in the cheapest gin. Whatever you do,
don’t judge my home. Cut my bones
with a machete till I’m finest dust
[wrap my pito in panties so I dream of pisar]
Please, no priests, no crosses, no flowers.
Steal a flask and stash me inside. Blast music,
dress to impress. Please be drunk
[miss work y pisen otra vez]
Bust out the drums the army strums.
Bust out the guitars guerrilleros strummed
and listen to the war inside [please
no american mierdas] Carouse the procession
dancing to the pier. Moor me
in a motorboat [de veras que sea una lancha]
driven by a nine-year-old
son of a fisherman. Scud to the center
of the Estero de Jaltepec. Read
“Como Tú,” and toss pieces of bread.
As the motorboat circles,
open the flask, so I’m breathed like a jacaranda,
like a flor de mayo,
like an alcatraz—then, forget me
and let me drift.
Montage With Mangos, Volcano, And Flooded Streets
I helped Abuelita pluck the white flor de izote from stems
to put in a bowl to then drop in the pan
to mix with eggs,
there’s no way Mom, younger than I am now
and in California like I am now,
there’s no way she knew my technique:
grab stalk and pull toward belly,
bowl between legs, petals like rice
from opened burlap.
I don’t want to go on.
I’m older than Dad then,
for the longest time I wanted to go back,
but going back won’t wake Mom’s hand
slapping my butt
when I’d run out the kitchen
to climb the mango tree,
branch by branch,
up six meters to watch the volcano’s peak fit in my hand—
lie to me. Say I can go back.
Say I��ve created smoke and no rain.
¿What was it I saw up there?
It’s almost 20 years and still,
I can’t keep mangos from falling
six meters down,
to where dogs lick what my aunts,
Mom, Dad, and I, still
cannot.
Heart wrenchingly beautiful poetry that must be read - especially now. Javier has a brilliant future.
July 1, 2021
"I wasn't born here
I've always known this country wanted me dead"
"Unaccompanied" is the kind of stellar poetry collection that really shines as a whole. While there were a few pieces (which I will name at the end) that stood out a bit more for me, the real beauty is the picture that gets created when you read poem after poem after poem. Zamora lays his life bare here: young years in El Salvador, the experience of crossing the border illegally as child, being undocumented in the US, the personal push and pull of the 2 countries, the fragmented family in 2 countries.
It is the kind of collection people who have a harsh view on these border crossings and being undocumented as an immigrant should read but likely that same group doesn't care much for poetry... But I felt this gave such phenomenal insights into the emotional toll behind these endevours, that people don't cross willy nilly because the feel like it today.
I think I have been spoiled by outstanding collections such as Ocean Vuong's and wanted a little bit more from the writing in here. The emotions are all there so maybe this is a futile complaint but I have read such great poetry over the last year that this came a bit short in that regard. Then again, after reading this I feel like I really came to know Zamora and his journey, not unlike you would in a novel or a memoir, and that is worth a lot to me. I also very much appreciated the blend of English and Spanish in these, not just does it give a certain level of authenticity but for someone who is slowly learning Spanish it was fun to get familiar with the terms used in here (and the feeling of success when I didn't need an online translator for help was also great).
My standouts: To Abuelita Neli/ Cassette Tape/ Rooftop/ Alterations/ Prayer/ Let me Try Again/ the whole last segment of June 10, 1999.
I've always known this country wanted me dead"
"Unaccompanied" is the kind of stellar poetry collection that really shines as a whole. While there were a few pieces (which I will name at the end) that stood out a bit more for me, the real beauty is the picture that gets created when you read poem after poem after poem. Zamora lays his life bare here: young years in El Salvador, the experience of crossing the border illegally as child, being undocumented in the US, the personal push and pull of the 2 countries, the fragmented family in 2 countries.
It is the kind of collection people who have a harsh view on these border crossings and being undocumented as an immigrant should read but likely that same group doesn't care much for poetry... But I felt this gave such phenomenal insights into the emotional toll behind these endevours, that people don't cross willy nilly because the feel like it today.
I think I have been spoiled by outstanding collections such as Ocean Vuong's and wanted a little bit more from the writing in here. The emotions are all there so maybe this is a futile complaint but I have read such great poetry over the last year that this came a bit short in that regard. Then again, after reading this I feel like I really came to know Zamora and his journey, not unlike you would in a novel or a memoir, and that is worth a lot to me. I also very much appreciated the blend of English and Spanish in these, not just does it give a certain level of authenticity but for someone who is slowly learning Spanish it was fun to get familiar with the terms used in here (and the feeling of success when I didn't need an online translator for help was also great).
My standouts: To Abuelita Neli/ Cassette Tape/ Rooftop/ Alterations/ Prayer/ Let me Try Again/ the whole last segment of June 10, 1999.
Read
November 21, 2017I have really struggled with this review, not because I didn’t enjoy the book, but because I can’t seem to capture the essence of it in a review. I do feel as though knowledge of the poet’s history is essential to appreciating this collection. Javier Zamora was born in El Salvador, in the middle of a civil war. The poems are unabashedly political, and they certainly hit home, especially in today’s climate of hate and distrust of immigrants. The theme of fear of deportation runs throughout this story of an undocumented boy who finally manages to cross the border into the mythical promised land of the United States, which backed and encouraged much of the violence that rocked El Salvador. There are poems where the violence of the country is reflected in Zamora’s grandfather, whom Zamora lived with after his parents escaped. Many of the poems are metaphorical persona poems, told in the voices of his parents and other family members.
The poems are not obscure, but they are difficult-not to understand, but because they expose the reality of what those years were like for the people who experienced them. For those of us who consider ourselves social activists, who marched and protested against U.S. involvement, these poems put a face to the slogans and outrage.
I realize this isn’t the “normal” poetry collection review, but I started and stopped so many times, and finally stopped over-thinking my review and let this come to the surface. These poems make you halt, make you think, and isn’t that what poetry is supposed to do?
The poems are not obscure, but they are difficult-not to understand, but because they expose the reality of what those years were like for the people who experienced them. For those of us who consider ourselves social activists, who marched and protested against U.S. involvement, these poems put a face to the slogans and outrage.
I realize this isn’t the “normal” poetry collection review, but I started and stopped so many times, and finally stopped over-thinking my review and let this come to the surface. These poems make you halt, make you think, and isn’t that what poetry is supposed to do?
December 26, 2017
An astonishingly powerful book of poetry, largely speaking of the memories of growing up amid the violence of civil war in El Salvador, and the experiences of illegal immigration into the United States.
Among my favorites:
"Instructions for my Funeral"
Douse my in the cheapest gin. Whatever you do,
don't judge my home. Cut my bones
with a machete till I'm finest dust.
[Wrap my pito in panties so I dream of pisar].
Please, no priests, no crosses, no flowers.
"Disappeared" begins Hold these names responsible...
"Let Me Try Again" which includes
He must have remembered his family
over the border,
or the border coming over them,
because he drove us to the border
and told us
next time, rest at least five days
Each section begins with a quotation from Salvadoran revolutionary poet Roque Dalton. Look him up.
Among my favorites:
"Instructions for my Funeral"
Douse my in the cheapest gin. Whatever you do,
don't judge my home. Cut my bones
with a machete till I'm finest dust.
[Wrap my pito in panties so I dream of pisar].
Please, no priests, no crosses, no flowers.
"Disappeared" begins Hold these names responsible...
"Let Me Try Again" which includes
He must have remembered his family
over the border,
or the border coming over them,
because he drove us to the border
and told us
next time, rest at least five days
Each section begins with a quotation from Salvadoran revolutionary poet Roque Dalton. Look him up.
December 30, 2017
A friend suggested this collection after hearing an NPR interview. I had just read about Zamora in Poets & Writers so dropped what else I was reading to pick this up. While I loved the subject matter and his delivery, I think there are significant things I missed by not speaking Spanish (there are portions of poems in Spanish with no translation that I simply didn’t want to Google to understand what he was saying). Even with that, great collection and enjoyable read. My faves were: To Abuelita Neli; Second Attempt Crossing; Rooftop; Mom Responds to Her Shaming; Abuelita Says Goodbye; Let Me Try Again; Vows; and Deportation Letter.
December 18, 2020
2. A book written in Central America: Unaccompanied by Javier Zamora
List Progress: 29/30
Written in 2017, Javier Zamora’s collection of poetry, Unaccompanied, is speaking directly to the political situations and conversations of today. Zamora was born in El Salvador and lived there until he was 9 years old, before crossing the Mexico-US border as an undocumented immigrant and unaccompanied minor in order to meet his parents who had crossed previously. These sorts of stories and situations have been plastered over the news and screamed about by pundits for years, but Zamora’s work paints the very human emotions of those fraught journeys.
The imagery Zamora uses, especially when talking about his longing for his home country, is rich and evocative, with lots of small details to give you the sense of what is pulling at him. Not much of the wordsmithing itself is that special, but the snippets of stories and images and the overall mood of the collection are great and moving. It is a beautiful collection, and a lot of the individual poems were striking, but it falls into the category of something I like, but don’t love. I think it is largely just a case of not being my type of poetry, though I could see these being very striking to hear performed live.
I don’t read a ton of poetry, but I am definitely glad I took the time to take this journey. The loving and lush way that Zamora writes about El Salvador, even in the face of extreme violence and dissent, is not something I’ve ever seen about a Central American country, and is something that absolutely should be a bigger part of the national conversations about immigration.
Would I Recommend It: Yes.
List Progress: 29/30
Written in 2017, Javier Zamora’s collection of poetry, Unaccompanied, is speaking directly to the political situations and conversations of today. Zamora was born in El Salvador and lived there until he was 9 years old, before crossing the Mexico-US border as an undocumented immigrant and unaccompanied minor in order to meet his parents who had crossed previously. These sorts of stories and situations have been plastered over the news and screamed about by pundits for years, but Zamora’s work paints the very human emotions of those fraught journeys.
The imagery Zamora uses, especially when talking about his longing for his home country, is rich and evocative, with lots of small details to give you the sense of what is pulling at him. Not much of the wordsmithing itself is that special, but the snippets of stories and images and the overall mood of the collection are great and moving. It is a beautiful collection, and a lot of the individual poems were striking, but it falls into the category of something I like, but don’t love. I think it is largely just a case of not being my type of poetry, though I could see these being very striking to hear performed live.
I don’t read a ton of poetry, but I am definitely glad I took the time to take this journey. The loving and lush way that Zamora writes about El Salvador, even in the face of extreme violence and dissent, is not something I’ve ever seen about a Central American country, and is something that absolutely should be a bigger part of the national conversations about immigration.
Would I Recommend It: Yes.
Read
March 2, 2023I say this with every poetry book I read, or try to read: I’m don’t usually get it.
Because they didn’t have the book, I asked the Iowa City Public Library to interlibrary loan 𝘜𝘯𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘥 by Javier Zamora for me. It came from the Northeast Iowa Community College Peosta Library. god, I love libraries.
The book is written by the same author as 𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘰, a book I recently read. I thought reading 𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘰 might give me the background knowledge I needed to understand the author’s poems. It did, but I still didn’t understand all of it. I can’t really give it a rating, but I always appreciate a person writing and what it took for them to get their work published.
Javier Zamora traveled from El Salvador to the United States without family but with the aid of a coyote and strangers. The trip was supposed to take two weeks; it took nine.
My friend and colleague sent me this article today: https://www.nytimes.com/2023/02/25/us... Why am I naive enough to think that child labor laws are in effect and functioning, when in reality they still exploit the most vulnerable? It makes me so angry. Why does everything come down to greed, power, and money?
Because they didn’t have the book, I asked the Iowa City Public Library to interlibrary loan 𝘜𝘯𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘥 by Javier Zamora for me. It came from the Northeast Iowa Community College Peosta Library. god, I love libraries.
The book is written by the same author as 𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘰, a book I recently read. I thought reading 𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘰 might give me the background knowledge I needed to understand the author’s poems. It did, but I still didn’t understand all of it. I can’t really give it a rating, but I always appreciate a person writing and what it took for them to get their work published.
Javier Zamora traveled from El Salvador to the United States without family but with the aid of a coyote and strangers. The trip was supposed to take two weeks; it took nine.
My friend and colleague sent me this article today: https://www.nytimes.com/2023/02/25/us... Why am I naive enough to think that child labor laws are in effect and functioning, when in reality they still exploit the most vulnerable? It makes me so angry. Why does everything come down to greed, power, and money?
June 3, 2021
2.5 stars.
Zamora is compelling and raw, like the way rug burn feels after it's been run up against a cactus, and his awful and evocatively illustrated accounts of immigrating to the U.S., the terrible conflicts in El Salvador, and his interpersonal relationships are intimate and at times powerful. Other times, the imagery becomes overused and tired and the text is so deeply stewed in misogyny that the fourth wall is broken and I lose a lot of sympathy for him. Females (or the male-made product of them) as a vehicle for loss, estrangement, hopelessness and states that otherwise set the stage for the male character arc is tired and sexist and doesn't make for good poetry or anything else.
Zamora is compelling and raw, like the way rug burn feels after it's been run up against a cactus, and his awful and evocatively illustrated accounts of immigrating to the U.S., the terrible conflicts in El Salvador, and his interpersonal relationships are intimate and at times powerful. Other times, the imagery becomes overused and tired and the text is so deeply stewed in misogyny that the fourth wall is broken and I lose a lot of sympathy for him. Females (or the male-made product of them) as a vehicle for loss, estrangement, hopelessness and states that otherwise set the stage for the male character arc is tired and sexist and doesn't make for good poetry or anything else.
June 23, 2025
This is a collection of poems that felt like unfinished stories that need to be told. It’s a reflection of a 9 year olds journey from El Salvador to the US to meet his father for the first time since he was one and his mother who he hasn’t seen since was four to experience his version of the American Dream, which unfortunately doesn’t exist. The trip was made unaccompanied and ended up being very scary and traumatic. We got to hear quick poems from other family members experiences that took place both in El Salvador and in the US. I am looking forward to reading Solito. I think I will reread this after I finish it for clarity in parts that confused me. Also, it was funny reading sana sana colita de rana in English
April 6, 2022
I am so very glad I read these poems. These poems carry life and death…they carry the stories of people coming into this country, traumatized and abused, but here. The author, from El Salvador, loves his country but hates what it is doing to him and to his family. Through telling his story, the story of his family, he invites us to imagine what might be possible, if we were to think about this differently.
April 24, 2023
The poetry didn't really appeal to me as such, but it made a powerful companion to the author's memoir Solito.
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