A Little More Love

It was her pained expression that drew me to her

The knots that tied up her happiness

Her eyes, unable to trust, darted warily

Her stomach, as if on mortal fear, rested like a slab

A slab of broken, forgotten pavement of a haunted house

Her fingers, trembling, had no certainty

Her being was in turmoil, her essence was in flames

Distrusting, she let her eyes sear me

As if by the baleful look I would retreat

But I didn’t

Every part of me was apprehended

By the weight of this woman’s sorrow

Whatever she carried, I guessed,

No soul could barely lift

If she wanted me to go back, I couldn’t tell,

But I stood there, our eyes communicating

Me, a timid pilgrim,

Her, an equally timid pilgrim,

Somehow I believed that there was a middle ground

“I roam the streets,” she tells me,

“I know pain, I know bitterness, I know what cold is”.

I don’t know what to say, so I remain quiet.

She tells me her children eat from the garbage

One was knocked down by a speeding van, a year ago.

She was raped by her father, infected with AIDS,

Chased from her village, forced to fend for herself

“This street is my home,” she says flatly.

Then she just ignored me and suckled her month-old baby

I thought to myself, “Despite the dirt, her baby gets the love”

As I rummaged through my pockets to help her

She still maintained that pained expression and the distrusting eyes

And as my palm rubbed upon hers, a part of me died

Perhaps all this woman needed was a little more love.