Walking from El Salvador
“How is Igor for you recently?”
his Kindergarten teacher asks.
“Sweet, quiet, maybe coming out
of his shell. Still not talking.
He’s been playing with Sheila
on the carpet which is new.”
“His parents came in for a conference,”
she rests her hand on my forearm.
“Miss Virginia, they are the sweetest people.
You would not believe
what they went through
to get here. They have other children
younger than Igor.” “Younger?”
“I don’t know how she did it. Must
have given birth and just started walking.”
“From El Salvador…?”
“They didn’t have a car, money, anywhere
to stay, they slept on the street.”
“So Dad made it clear it wasn’t safe
to make any noise.”
“They even showed me some
pictures, some video so I would understand.
Dear Lord Our God,” she opens her hands
to the ceiling. “You just would not believe
what they went through to get here.
I was nearly in tears.”
My arms are already wrapped tightly
around myself when she says,
“They had to wrap their babies
in trash bags. That’s all they had,
all they could get. Miss Virginia,
they walked from El Salvador
with their babies wrapped in trash bags.”
American Poverty, a brief introduction
Poverty is an America where parents say, “Fuck you” to their children, scream, “just fucking die” to two-year-olds.
an America where people walk down the street shouting, “Fuck you” into their phones.
where people ride the bus tornado through grocery aisles punch their teachers saying, “Fuck you.”
where people say, “Shut the fuck up and eat your dinner,” thrusting a bag of chips toward you.
Poverty’s lunch boxes are packed with sugar, sugar, sugar, salt, hunks of plain white bread, salt, sugar, artificial colors, flavors, sweeteners, artificial food, or nothing at all.
Poverty is where “Fuck you,” plays a prominent role in communication.
where children’s brains develop in suboptimal conditions.
where lunch is a tube of Pringles a sleeve of crackers.
Poverty is an America where Santa delivers presents to a middleman who passes them on to you.
Poverty, a refrigerator with half a bottle of cola, a burned out bulb.
where Fuck You can mean twenty different things depending on your intonation.
Poverty is waking up in this America – your first thought, fuck, and fuck your second.
Confession 5
I’ve always hated to get out of bed but this…
I am frustrated, trapped cannot function here cannot quit.
The last week I’ve had strange pains in my back. It gets worse at night and I wake up feeling a little better hoping whatever is gone.
Tonight my back hurt so much I could not turn myself in bed. I had to ask my husband to push me onto my side, one hand under my shoulder the other my hip.
I could not turn myself in bed.
What is this?
Pain rapidly increased over most of my back.
A burning inside, all down my back
almost tingling
my nerves
these are my nerves,
anxiety anxiety attack every day.
My nerves are done being repressed. My nerves are on fire.
All these months screaming, crying, banging, threatening, fighting, throwing furniture I had to pretend not to hear them.
This is your job. You can’t leave. You can’t quit. I’m not safe.
Screaming, banging, fighting. fighting, banging, screaming. You can’t leave. You can’t quit. You’re not safe.
Doors slamming, kids screaming kids fighting, kids crying I’m not safe. I can’t leave. I can’t quit. I’m not safe…
nerves fire kids not safe kids running kids fighting kids slamming
I’m not safe I’m not safe I’m not safe
Virginia Crawford is the author of two collections of poetry, Touch, and questions for water. Please join her at: patreon.com/SamandVirginia