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I KNOW HUNGER'S FACE
The child hangs in a tattered cotton sling,
below his mother's breasts,
whose knotted nipples, cracked and parched,
droop toward the globe of his head,
lolling to one side,
bone bulging like the promise of birth
behind skin that is latex thin.
His vacant eyes wide,
the light already gone out;
it's the stare of the dead,
a work in progress.
His tiny ribs heave a washboard rhythm,
up and down,
when he moves or breathes or
whines with white-crusted lips
against ebony that has lost its shine,
except for the tears glistening
in the corners of his eyes,
welling up in a land of heat and hunger,
watering holes for flies
running freely as children
who were born to eat and play.
- Peter Scheponik