Mirabel Smith Poet Verse

Memories of 1940

My name is being called from the street.
Looking out my window,
Gray.
Hesitating, I linger longer,
Biting my lower lip.
Remembering my child,
I lift her.
Bringing her to my chest tight.
Small breaths warming my skin, as
I tiptoe to the door.
Down the stairs, following
Impressed footprints.
At the last step I
Hear worried whispers.
Families watching me from their doors,
Pitying me.
Reaching for the handle,
BANG.
Door flies open.
Three men stand waiting.
One grabs my brown hair,
Throwing me to the ground.
He kneeling next to me spits
“Filthy vermin,
no better than a cockroach,
thinks she can take her sweet time,
thinks we got nuttin else to do.”
Wrenching me up,
I squint,
Dust in my eyes.
Breathing in deep, I
Kiss my child,
My child,
Who has done nothing but need me,
My child.
Odors pinch my nose and, gasping
Pull my shawl over my child.
Pushed forward,
I see everyone for the first time now.
Naked.
Standing.
Silent.
Scared.
Knowing what’s next.
Knowing why their hands were dirty.
Knowing why they were given shovels.
Lifting my child to my face,
Kissing her puckered lips,
Telling god 
“I understand,
But why her?”
BANG.
My life into the trench with,
My child.
My child who has done nothing.

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