Y in the road
She stands beside me,
Heartbeat thumping, as sure as mine
My fingers swell visibly and my wrists pang with pain
But her pain is different, it lingers all around her
Her hair is a muss, charcoal black smudges under each eye,
Not the sort left from wiping tears away.
A small child sits silently in her stroller
Looking too tired from life than a child should.
She stares blankly
Unattached to any feeling whatsoever,
It’s as if she’s seen something she’s still trying to process.
Mom is spilling out of the top of her dirty dress,
Her scars, and indistinguishable red marks and
Blue grey tats mark her, like the weight on a bulk food item
They read names like Eddie and Victor
Where is her mother, I think to myself?
Surely she is dead, or dead to her-
Either way, she is better off, not knowing
What she has done or not done
Maybe she was beaten or called ugly?
Or was she left in her stroller,
At such a vantage point, she could only see
the ugly side of the world?