Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
This is where I live! our youngest tour guide proudly gestures to a 6 by 6 tin hut viciously reflecting the African heat Inside, a sun-beaten woman rests against four ceramic jugs brimming with water that’s almost fresh carried from the well we passed a mile and a half back. We embark on a two-step  tour across the tiny space where a dozen relatives sleep, pausing at the single mattress reserved for ouma, eldest in the village at 52. Her call for questions reverberates in silence against the camera hanging from my neck, and the Cliff bar peeking out of my pocket. Our guide kisses his mom before closing the door, a relieved sigh slips through my teeth, we march on.
0
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
We March On
This is where I live! our youngest tour guide proudly gestures to a 6 by 6 tin hut viciously reflecting the African heat Inside, a sun-beaten woman rests against four ceramic jugs brimming with water that’s almost fresh carried from the well we passed a mile and a half back. We embark on a two-step  tour across the tiny space where a dozen relatives sleep, pausing at the single mattress reserved for ouma, eldest in the village at 52. Her call for questions reverberates in silence against the camera hanging from my neck, and the Cliff bar peeking out of my pocket. Our guide kisses his mom before closing the door, a relieved sigh slips through my teeth, we march on.
christina-calvano
Written by
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem