TELL ME ABOUT COMPASSION, AMERICA
Belinda Subraman
I know a child
who misses school
for lack of clothes.
It’s winter.
A fire is outside the tent
she stays close to.
She tells no one
where she lives
but describes a home,
normal, unimposing, average,
hoping no one will notice
newspaper patches
in her shoes,
holes in her clothes
she covers with
a forth hand sweater.
Sometimes her mother
is gone for days
but she knows to fetch
firewood,
to fill plastic milk jugs
with water
from gas station restrooms,
to ask for spare change
in the far end of town.
She’s eight years old
and Indian.
You turn away
when you see her.
But occasionally a man
touches her body
for the price of a warm meal,
a night’s sleep
in a bed
in an ordinary house
like she dreams of.
