48 Poverty poems

“Bottle gatherer, what do you hope to gain from this gathering of the discards of other people’s merrymaking, beyond the few cents you’ll accrue?” “I will enjoy the echo of their celebrating. And besides, the giant snake-head of the bottle bank is at least a block away. I am helping them.” “And does that offer you a pleasure in these days of random mass shootings in bars and music venues?” “Any bottle that has drops of wine in it and no drops of blood pleases me.” “Do you believe in God, my friend?” “I am not your friend, good Sir, although I wish you well. And I’ll need at least a year to answer your question.” “Fine then, tell me, do you differentiate between green, brown, and colorless bottles?” “No more than the skin colors or hair colors of our citizens.” “Can I help you, for no recompense, to bring the bottles to the big metal snake? “Ah, kind sir, I thank you, but some journeys are better taken alone."

Whoever it was who brought the first wood and coal To start the Fire, did his part well; Not all wood takes to fire from a match, Nor coal from wood before it’s burned to charcoal. The wood and coal in question caught a flame And flared up beautifully, touching the air That takes a flame from anything. Somehow the fire was furnaced, And then the time was ripe for some to say, “Right banking of the furnace saves the coal.” I’ve seen them set to work, each in his way, Though all with shovels and with ashes, Never resting till the fire seemed most dead; Whereupon they’d crawl in hooded night-caps Contentedly to bed. Sometimes the fire left alone Would die, but like as not spiced tongues Remaining by the hardest on till day would flicker up, Never strong, to anyone who cared to rake for them. But roaring fires never have been made that way. I’d like to tell those folks that one grand flare Transferred to memory tissues of the air Is worth a like, or, for dull minds that turn in gold, All money ever saved by banking coal.

Here’s a seed. Food for a week. Cow skull in the pasture; back room where the brain was: spacious hut for me. Small then, and smaller. My desire’s to stay alive and be no larger than a sliver lodged in my own heart. And if the heart’s a rock I’ll whack it with this tin cup and eat the sparks, always screaming, always screaming for more.

The little pitiful, worn, laughing faces, Begging of Life for Joy! I saw the little daughters of the poor, Tense from the long day's working, strident, gay, Hurrying to the picture-place. There curled A hideous flushed beggar at the door, Trading upon his horror, eyeless, maimed, Complacent in his profitable mask. They mocked his horror, but they gave to him From the brief wealth of pay-night, and went in To the cheap laughter and the tawdry thoughts Thrown on the screen; in to the seeking hand Covered by darkness, to the luring voice Of Horror, boy-masked, whispering of rings, Of silks, of feathers, bought—so cheap!—with just Their slender starved child-bodies, palpitant For Beauty, Laughter, Passion, that is Life: (A frock of satin for an hour's shame, A coat of fur for two days' servitude; “And the clothes last,” the thought runs on, within The poor warped girl-minds drugged with changeless days; “Who cares or knows after the hour is done?”) —Poor little beggars at Life's door for Joy! The old man crouched there, eyeless, horrible, Complacent in the marketable mask That earned his comforts—and they gave to him! But ah, the little painted, wistful faces Questioning Life for Joy!

you must be made of money. your parents must have grown on trees. bet you’re black tinged with green. bet you sleep on bags of it. bet your barbies climb it. bet you never wanted. bet you never had to ask. bet you golf. bet you tennis. bet you got a summer house. bet you got a credit card for your 5th birthday. bet you played with bills for toys. bet you chew them up for dinner. bet you spit your black out like tobacco that’s why you talk so bet you listen to green day. bet you ain’t never heard of al. bet your daddy wears a robe around the house. bet his hands are soft as a frog’s belly. bet your house is on a hill. bet the grass is freshly cut. bet you feel like a princess. bet the police protect your house. bet you know their first names. bet your house has a hundred rooms. bet a black lady comes to clean them.

Poverty is black ice. — Naomi Ayala You leave me sleeping in the dark. You kiss me and I stir, fingers in your hair, eyes open, unseeing. You leave me asleep every morning, commuting to the school in the city at sunrise. The landlord’s driveway, a muddy creek, ices over hard after the freezing rain clatters all night. Your feet fly up, your head slamming the ground, an eclipse of the sun flooding your eyes. You sleep under the car. No one knows how long you sleep. You awake with a hundred ice picks stabbing your eardrums. You awake, coat and hair soaked, and somehow drive to school. You remember to turn left at the Smith & Wesson factory. The other teachers lead you by the elbow to Mercy Hospital, where you pause when the nurse asks your name, where you claim your pain level is a four, and they slide you into the white coffin of an MRI machine. You hold your breath. They film your brain. Concussion: the word we use for the boxer plunging face-first to the canvas after the uppercut blindsided him, not the teacher commuting to school at sunrise in a Subaru Crosstrek. Yet, you would drive, ears hammering as they hammer in the purgatory of the MRI. A week before, Isabela came to you in the classroom and said: Miss, I cannot sleep. Three days, I cannot sleep. Her boyfriend called at 2 am , and she did not pick up. At 3 am , a single shot to the head put him to sleep, and he will sleep forever, his body hidden beneath a car in a parking lot on Maple Street, the cops, the television cameras, the neighbors all gathering at the yellow-tape carnival of his corpse. You said to Isabela:Take this journal. Write it down. You don’t have to show me. You don’t have to show anyone. On the cover of the journal you bought at the drugstore was the word:Dream. Isabela sat there in your classroom, at your desk, pencil waving in furious circles. By lunchtime, as her friends slapped each other, Isabela slept, head on the desk, face pressed against the pages of the journal. This is why I watch you sleep at 3 am , when the sleeping pills fail to quell the strike meeting in my brain. This is why I say to you, when you kiss me in my sleep:Don’t go. Don’t go. You have to go.

there is a plasticity to the soul that can fit inside sweaters but not inside drawers. how many times can one watch the same porn video before one feels that they have become that porn video. how many times can you attempt to untangle a cross. i bought a black dress today — long, and covered with sequins in the timorous shapes of stars. when i paid for it i imagined myself sitting in it on a curb drinking beer with you, so tell me what came first, the beer or the dress. you put my broken buddha lamp in the hall today because it “just didn’t fit.” i put you on the right side of my neck during a sex dream for the same reason. pisces is the blue cheese of the zodiac signs. are you a gemini? rose-covered curtains give me anxiety and black gauze has the polar-opposite effect. does styrofoam turn you on? it is narcissistic to assume that anything likes to be liked by you. it is narcissistic to assume that anything matters if you don’t. i would like to be a man ray photograph more than i would like to be a person. i would like to be the glass carnival wallpaper at your lips more than i would like to be a person. would you fuck me against your window, even though it is phobic to be naked in public? i have a feeling that although you are a poet, you think that poets are phony. i have a feeling that it’s all a joke to you and i like it, but i am not similar. your lips came to me in a dream, red and shiny like cartoon wool. your lips came to me in a honda and i loved them away, and i pushed them anyway. i wanted to be a porn star, your father wanted you to make boxes. we both felt upset about the wanting. we both learned that it is important to feel guiltless about smashing guitars. i am a 5 p.m. person who buys cardigans to look like trash. you are a 9 p.m. person who likes both kinds of nylon against your fingers. i couldn’t concentrate in yoga because i was fixated on how much you’d like the ass of the girl in front of me. i’m starting to believe that purple hair is cliché and i don’t like it. i let myself get wet in the rain today because i wanted you to be proud of me. when are my poems going to stop you. this is just the long string of molecules. this is just the long.

The policy sounds neutral numbers and percentages cost-benefit analysis but policy lands on bodies specific bodies bodies with names and children and bills due on the first