Occupy Poetry

KETCHUP KID

BY Saira Viola

Her day is punched with silence
And shredded with hand -me- down promises
Only 10 summers blushed and already her dreams are splintered with hate
Through the filmy curtain of her left eye
There is a coral ring of saddness it weeps across the school room desk
And scoops her into the arms of misery
She ate cooked rat on Sunday .
Her mamma told her it would be okay but the scabby hump of her intestines had already made her puke three times ,
Yellow chunks of phlegm glutting her tender craw .
In the canteen she copied Bernadette and jammed 18 free ketchup sachets into her pocket she would mix it all up later , add hot water and let her stomach rest up, they called it hill billy consome it left a sweetened trail of squalor in her mouth.
Home was a burnt out Lincoln she was meant to be in heaven with her Barbie Doll Casey J, just another ghetto abortion statistic bloodying the sidewalk, but her mama changed her mind .
Mr . Weezer let them use his trailer to wash up in exchange for favours and creepy dress up games; he had a golf ball size cyst on his cheek she wanted to jab .His breath smelt stale , of warm beer pooled with cigarette butts and lard. His lips were greased with evil.
She would sit alone at recess rocking herself to sleep the chairs were comfy and she avoided the fishbowl stares all the other kids hurled her way.
She had a make believe castle decked with pink balloons and minnie mouse dresses spotted with candy balls of glitter.
Her one friend Ellen got taken away by child services , Ellen was always capped with bruises on her arms, her back and worse her eyes which were veined purple and green like trailing snap dragon ,she missed her goofy laugh and the way she drew white unicorns always with indigo blue eyes. More than anything she dreamt of a real dinner not pop top beeferoni but a sit down meal with soda and a Christmas tree.
On Fridays she got her weekend snack pack from school but that didn't stop her festering need for normality . She is the canker sore of Newt Gingrich's myopic mind a shameful scar on the landscape of red blue and white the banner hatred of the poor . Is that the triumphant call of those stars and stripes that blister the tinsel beauty of the lonely Vegas night .

From: 
May Day Stories Emerging Light Series

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