“Mommy, it’s getting dark!” his voice quivering,
clinging to my skirt.
No response. My pain was great though,
I couldn’t help him.
It pained him, that pains me.
A simple treatment really,
Across the street, the sick enter
Their sickly green necks covered in thin gold chains
little cups with two colorful pills.
They gulp them down,
They walk away, pockets still weighed down.
They could buy a hundred colorful pills.
If I kept my belly empty for weeks, maybe I could buy one of the miracle pills
Still wouldn’t be enough.
My son will join the river.
The dead flows.
I can’t afford the price of life.