This one is the night my husband was taken
I am told he died in a Dominican cane field
I do not know
I never saw him again
My breast remembers his touch
rough, yet gentle- good
my hearts wishes to forget

This one- and this one, too
are the morning the TonTon Macoute came
and made my only girl a reluctant,
bloodied woman
She had spoken on the radio-
praised Titid and his love of the youth
of the poor
The TonTon chose to squash both
by taking her innocence
by trying to take her hope

This one, the deep one
right between my eyes
is carved by the many nights
of restless troubled slumber
wakened by the cries of my hungry dear ones-
deadening their pain with bits of clay dipped
in precious sugar
then lying in my guilt
hoping for a loaf a bread for them,
or barring that, for death

Yet, I have happy lines, too.

See them? Here, at the corners of my eyes

These few are for each child who refused to die
who rises to greet the sun each day
and calls me "Manman"
My youngest will marry soon
and his bride is strong and beautiful
I know her babies will also thrive

This one is the morning my eldest grandson
came and showed me a paper
gold-edged, fancy
a diploma
The Sisters had sponsored him because he was good
and bright
He would not shine shoes-
He works in an office
He owns a white shirt

I am a woman who has cried much
laughed more
dreamed much
prayed more
A woman who maintained her hope
I am a woman proud of her lines
for they prove that I have lived.