Poetry by Jed Meyers, B.A. Van Sise, Sophia Latorre-Zengierski, Sandra Fees, Earl David Freeland, Francisco Castro Videla and more.
From my table:
EAT THE RICH
A Woman’s Hymn
I did not come here to ask.
I did not come here to beg.
I came to say it plain,
I came to paint it in blue,
to carve it into the concrete,
to spit it into the wind
so it carries across the country
like a mother’s wail in the night.
.
EAT THE RICH.
Because they ate first.
They ate the rent, the groceries,
the gas, the light bill, the medicine.
They ate the schools and left our children hungry.
They ate the wages and left us to bleed out
in warehouses, in fields, in backrooms,
in nursing homes, in checkout lines,
in break rooms where we cry between shifts.
Because I have folded too many shirts
for a paycheck that disappears before I touch it.
Because I have wiped too many floors, too many counters,
too many old men’s mouths,
too many tears off my daughter’s face
when I tell her we can’t afford that field trip.
Because I have stood in line at dawn
for a doctor who won’t see me.
Because I have made meals out of nothing.
Because I have watched my mother work
until her back broke, until her hands curled,
until her body forgot how to rest.
Because the rich do not know what tired means.
Because the rich have never woken up afraid.
Because the rich have never held a child
and prayed to God that they don’t get sick
because sickness is something we can’t afford.
Because they will not stop.
Because they do not care.
Because they will sit in their towers
while we drown in their debts,
while we choke on their wars,
while we bury our dead
and go back to work the next morning.
And don’t tell me to wait.
Don’t tell me to work harder.
My mother worked.
My grandmothers worked.
Their hands built this country.
Their backs carried this country.
Their sweat watered this country.
And still, we are starving.
I do not want crumbs.
I do not want patience.
I want the whole goddamn table to turn.
Before they eat us all.
From my table:
EAT THE RICH
A Woman’s Hymn
I did not come here to ask.
I did not come here to beg.
I came to say it plain,
I came to paint it in blue,
to carve it into the concrete,
to spit it into the wind
so it carries across the country
like a mother’s wail in the night.
.
EAT THE RICH.
.
Because they ate first.
They ate the rent, the groceries,
the gas, the light bill, the medicine.
They ate the schools and left our children hungry.
They ate the wages and left us to bleed out
in warehouses, in fields, in backrooms,
in nursing homes, in checkout lines,
in break rooms where we cry between shifts.
.
EAT THE RICH.
.
Because I have folded too many shirts
for a paycheck that disappears before I touch it.
Because I have wiped too many floors, too many counters,
too many old men’s mouths,
too many tears off my daughter’s face
when I tell her we can’t afford that field trip.
.
Because I have stood in line at dawn
for a doctor who won’t see me.
Because I have made meals out of nothing.
Because I have watched my mother work
until her back broke, until her hands curled,
until her body forgot how to rest.
.
Because the rich do not know what tired means.
Because the rich have never woken up afraid.
Because the rich have never held a child
and prayed to God that they don’t get sick
because sickness is something we can’t afford.
.
EAT THE RICH.
.
Because they will not stop.
Because they do not care.
Because they will sit in their towers
while we drown in their debts,
while we choke on their wars,
while we bury our dead
and go back to work the next morning.
.
EAT THE RICH.
.
And don’t tell me to wait.
Don’t tell me to work harder.
My mother worked.
My grandmothers worked.
Their hands built this country.
Their backs carried this country.
Their sweat watered this country.
And still, we are starving.
.
I do not want crumbs.
I do not want patience.
I want the whole goddamn table to turn.
.
EAT THE RICH.
Before they eat us all.