Poem of the Week 2/14/2017
Sumaria settles her tray on her head calmly
like one of her cows swishing flies
off her hind quarters and heads out to sell.
In the carefree quiet after school hour,
when the day is turing in on itself
morning glory like,
my sister and I are dawdling on Back Street
on our way to Mactab
when we run into her.
We ask to see what is on her tray.
When she resists,
until she lowers it.
Something about her with that tray
on her head, a girl my own age,
bare feet like me,
with old tomatoes, squingy eggplants,
and other bruised things
caused such a mixed-up primal feeling
to rise up in me
I didn’t know if to cry or hit her.
Instead, I said something mean
and ran off with my sister.
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