my day through many eyes

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murmurs the cape town sister
just look at all this
lovely water
right from a tap in your
very own kitchen
hot or cold!

no fetching or carrying
wood and water
the bush woman notes
no building, no tending
a fire to heat it
no pulling ashes
out of it later
how wonderful!

agrees the highland nepalese
and here are metal cooking pots too
all kinds and sizes of them
even the richest person i know
owns only two of those
i see now they’re little ones at that

tomatoes aren’t in season
marvels the lady
from the italian countryside
but here you have them fresh
by the dozen!

what beautiful clothing you own
breathes the guatamalan girl
the fabrics all so soft
so light!
why, there must be
three or four
entire outfits here!

no one minds
whether your shadow falls on them here
do they?
sighs the untouchable

if you speak to a male colleague
in the coffeehouse
the jordanian wishes to know
and your priests see you do it
do they bury you up to your neck
under the goal posts at halftime
and stone you to death?

the quiet
bride from india reassures her
and if you can’t come up with your dowry
they don’t burn you, either…

the little russian peasant child
just stares at my good pair
of old thrift store boots

The poet/editor of this website is physically disabled, and lives at a fraction of her nation’s poverty level. Contributions may be made at:

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Ana Daksina

About the Author: Ana Daksina

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