My grandmother always told me to keep my head down
whenever we drove past the kids on the street.
They always had things to sell,
peddling their candies and flowers
as if they were giving you all they had to offer,
their lilting voices earnest, their black eyes dead.
***** hands ****** to knock on the windows of your car,
skinny blurs racing to fill the gaps in between the midday traffic -
keeping my head down, it was easy to forget they were there.
I don't know why I assumed that they had parents
and a roof
and a table full of food
like I did.
They looked hungry all the time.
I felt the words rolling around my mouth,
my tongue tasting them
before I swallowed my objections
once again.
I was never a brave child.
I snap my purse shut,
I have just been caught.
You don't know what they do
with the money that you give them,
my grandmother chides.
I'm never quick enough
to catch her flit her hands,
like doves, granting salvation
in the form of a fifty peso note slipped into the little girl's grubby hand -
the only telling sign
a wreath of sampagita flowers
hidden in the back seat.
One day,
I won't be afraid to look up
and stare their poverty in the eyes
and maybe they might flicker with recognition.
I have been taught that hunger
sinks the cheeks
droops the skin
swells the bellies
so that the afflicted all look the same.
So why is it that I am still searching for forgiveness in a single child's eyes?
My ignorance
shall forever be
a debt I will be required to pay.
