chariots from heaven
mother of two
stands on Church St.
outside the Open Hand food bank
for those with AIDS
blond hair, unwashed
skeleton bare
tho camouflaged
under 20 year-old
corduroys and recycled plaid
brother holding her arm
they enter the warehouse
crates and boxes stacked high
gotta check
in
at the front desk
where a helpful but mechanical black woman
examines her ID card
and hands her
the "grocery list" for the
week
she sits on a vinyl green
chair
and waits
in the post-triage room
nutrition posters curling off the walls
while volunteers behind a counter
call out numbers, accept sheets, and wheel carts
into the backroom to throw goods
in:
fresh, canned, and packaged
maybe it's past 3pm
the "fresh greens" are
out
whatever those were
poor logistics
she can have
yams
instead, but she clutches her brother's arm
stares like a POW and says
"No"
meaning, "I won't be treated
like a second-class citizen even
if I'm living off your mothefuckin tax-
covered handouts
you cheated on those forms
anyway cause you didn't
want to feed people
like me"
the volunteer
smiles accommodatingly, after
all s/he isn't the one
dying
goods on the counter
for her brother to put in brown
bags
she's too weak
to do anything but initial the weekly lease
how many more weeks can it go on like this
resisting katabasis
before one
less
burden to the food bank and the volunteers her
children her brother her mother will
even outlive her
stray dog
that she took in 4 years
ago and all else
and with this thought she
rises
gathering strength
as if before the first artillery of the day
as the nerves in her solar plexus
are deteriorating and her
toes
ache from the cold.
outside, the sky is
cold, too
but a
blue, color of
her
chariots from heaven.
--jennifer crystal chien