Author Information
Part of "Poems for the Abids
1.
I cannot recover from this truth
And its being a truth:
That I am here,
You are there.
I am wrapped in perfumed flannel sheets, a downy comforter, cotton bedclothes,
The wisdom of a college education, all these books, paper, a pencil, a lamp,
You
And when I write it I will cry
Are a slave.
A slave.
A slave.
A slave.
You are an “Abid”
the word “used virtually synonymously with ‘black person.’”
You sleep on the ground. Bugs crawl all over your body and make you itch. You are 14 years old,
a woman. You miss your mother, whom you knew and may never know again.
Your uterus rumbles and you’ll bleed and ache and throw up, but keep working, keep living, keep working, living, workliving, worving
What for, Earth Goddess? What for, Sad Child of Mud?
I am working a job at a video store called Blockbuster. I put tapes away and ring people up. I eat nice vegetarian lunches with tomatoes from our garden
And cucumbers, lettuce, onions, basil. Sometimes my arms ache from the videotape stacks I carry, or my back will pinch and moan from leaning over the register. I
Hate the pain. I fear all work.
You felt too sick to tend your master’s goats, one afternoon, two years ago. The big family man gave his daughter a lollipop while he went to go get his saw. He claimed your fingers for punishment. This is truth,
I know. I read it in my Teen Magazine
Which was purchased for $4.99.
And by the way, you are currently worth $33 US dollars.
As your fingers fall away
like leaves shed in this; your fall
season,
your small chance could be purchased
for half of what I make in a day.
