Poverty

Sop of Saving Bread

~ Iyan Igma

Here, have the last morsel of bread.
You can gnaw on my corpse after.
And when you do, try not to think
Of the one who gave you laughter.

Don’t think of the hugs and kisses,
And whatever you do, don’t cry.
My love is unconditional;
For you, my child, I gladly die.

You must live; you have much to learn
And fantastic sights to witness.
You’ll make it through. Soon rain must come,
And earth will be healed of sickness,

Of the cold but snowless winter
And the drought that thawed in spring’s lieu.
Of the crops that failed all year long,
While our animals perished, too.

My life’s full, though not my belly;
My gaunt body’s ready for rest.
It’s peaceful, slipping to heaven
As my heart stills in my chest.

But you must live to understand
The true happiness of the grown,
And thus understand my last acts
By having children of your own.

Don’t weep; I will watch over you,
And I’ll comfort you in your dreams.
You’ll never be alone here, child,
Even if that is how it seems.”

Pummelos

~ Iyan Igma

Pummelos, with their citric smell,
Make me live in memories past
When I was still a little child
With no hopes innocence would last,

Nor a hope Christmas would bring
The coveted toys of all the rest.
A pummelo was my present then,
And I considered myself blest.

My family gathered around me and
The well-adorned, emblazoned tree,
Whose twinkling lights are like the souls
Of those passing in and out of humanity.

I was hardened by poverty, death,
Friendlessness, and low self-esteem,
So any gifts beyond the pummelo
Would be a suspicious dream.

The surreal chanced as, awkwardly,
I accepted some stranger’s gift
Out of the box on the doorstep
Left in hopes our spirits to lift.

The whatnots animated us,
According to our childish nature,
But proved a bit unsettling to
My pride strong and mature.

How dare they think us poor?
They needn’t think; it was the truth.
How is it I ruined their efforts
With feelings wild and uncouth?

How is it the cherished present
Was one I’d resigned myself to,
While such trinkets as I’d wanted
Became meaningless anew?

I sat and slowly ate my pummelo,
And its tartness has stayed with me
And caused me to resent gifts given
For sympathy of my poverty.

The years have died like many men,
But, unlike men, will not come back,
But remind me when I had naught
There was nothing that I did lack.