Dirty Job

Don’t think I don’t see you
dirt glazed cheeks and
tethered minimalist cloth
Oh, I see you
Squatting there
nimble fingers plucking
for hard-earned meager pay

I see myself in the decaying
sores on your feet,
your emaciated limbs and
deeply sunken eyes
I do not feel guilty for what I do -
how I afflict you.
Your endurance
overtakes me;
you are resilient it seems
but in the end I will win.
I always do.

I live in the water molecules
creating your disease
I dwell in the hunger-infused
howls of your children
I strip away your dignity;
penetrate your mind so
you believe it’s your fault

In the darkness, I swiftly crawl
thieving your possessions;
no one suspects me.
How could you, in your simple minded state?
I pocketed your curiosity and
opportunities for higher thought

I know what you think of me
You think I conspire to beat you down
to bring upon you a wretched existence
while I stand by and gloat
You’re wrong; I’m just doing my job.
Someone has to do it.

ode to mom~

I assume that every mother instills some form of lifelong aspirations upon her daughter, whether intentional or not. I can try to imagine that moment (and I say try because that moment feels as far away as my own birth) where upon looking at your new born child with a new found adoration, you feel that you could – and direly want to- mold their future right in front of you. You create a future brighter than your past, a future free of the things you had face, to endure. I feel my mother’s ordained future heavy upon me but not in a way that makes me feel like I am living a dream that belongs to her. It is more so that I am aware of the things she had long hoped for me and I merely embraced them. I recall at an early age, of her telling others I was going to university and I could picture myself there, in whatever mental scheme of “university” I was able to produce at the time. I still hear her almost pleading with me, during the many disputes of the wonderfully tumultuous time that is adolescence, to be confident - something she never was – and chastising me whenever I was a follower. She would then reminisce about when she had me; how she wanted me to grow to be an independent, strong, poised woman with her own ideas. This all sounds very palpable … but it is in knowing the insecurities of her past that I am able to see the sincerity of her hopes. I think of these things often and they have become no less a part of me than the blood in my veins. Minding her hopes has become a means of keeping myself accountable, and that in itself has evolved into the desire to continuously make her proud.