Two Upon Four of Us

Two upon four of us
Thank God there aren’t more of us

You never escape our kind of poverty, not fully. Nowadays I overhear a woman on the way to the chip stand say she’s starving, see how her bum spills out of her waistband, remembering all them winter days walking to school with my fist bunched into my belly, trying  to fool myself into believing there was something in it aside from the hunger that carved me hollow, made my cold bones ache all day, clots of hair in my comb and gaps where second teeth never came in.


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