Whispers

He nods his head and folds his hands respectfully

“jai” says he, as you nod past him

He pines after his father leaves

For work, to cut firewood for the rich

The rich, pretending to absorb the forest in heated rooms and in luxury

“papa ji, papa ji” he yells and let’s tears take over.

For he knows that his daddy won’t turn.

He plays with the dogs and watches

Just watches his pregnant mother grunt under the load of grass on her head.

He likes the city girl in the pink hat

She brings candy and a camera

And he can smile for the lenses in oversized glasses

That make him look like a metamorphosed bee.

Camus would have been proud or sad.

He likes the city girl for the funny things she has

But he hates her for taking her dad away

He doesn’t know why she does it.

He doesn’t know what service or staff mean

But he does know “Aubert” his friend.

“Aubert, aubert” he cries

And Robert always comes. Panting and delighted

Always wagging his tail for the boy in the red jacket and a tiny ponytail.

He listens to the radio while his mummy and papa ji converse in low tones

They seem unhappy, upset. But he didn’t wet the bed.

It must be that voice on the radio.

Next morning, he flits happily across the fields

Skidding, stumbling but running toward papa ji

In his joy, he cries out the new word from the radio.

“Rape, rape, papa ji rape”

When your three year old knows without meaning a word

When your three year old is happy to sing it

You wonder, where did we go wrong?

You wonder, how the pure forests of cedar and silver oak

Now lie polluted with the echoes of city crime

Through the voice of a child.

And I, the city girl, I hang my head in shame.

In shame for the ruins, the smoke, the pollution, the brutality

That the city breezes onto a child

A mere child in the forest.