search instagram arrow-down


best of HDtS editor's notes fiction interviews nonfiction poetry reviews

Archives by date

Archives by theme

                          The child                              
                                                            at the border
                   from the gas,
                                                            but also
                     from hearing
                                                            the mother’s
                                                            panicked voice
                                                            scream syllables
                                                            on the other side
                                                            this language of
                             and pain
               and desperation,
                                                           this language
                       of uncertain
                                                           of whipcrack
                                                           this language
                   practiced only
                           to beg for
                                                            of the men
                                                            no one can
        the men whose eyes
               are covered with                             
                                                            dark masks.
                                                            The men
            whose hearts are
                                                           with Kevlar
               and the butts of                            
                      dusty guns,
                                                           and none of this
                                                           the child
                          this child
                who has found
                                                           no reason
                                                           to speak yet,
                      reason only
                          to weep.
                                                           If she could speak,
                                                           if she could shout
                                                           the crucial word
                would anyone
                                                            would anyone
                a hand across–                 an open hand?
            on the other side
                                                            would hear
                         buried in
                                                           her one-word hymn–
                                                            a word
                      that means
               the same thing
                                                           in two languages:

Jo Angela Edwins lives in Florence, SC, where she teaches at Francis Marion University and serves as the poet laureate of the Pee Dee region of the state. She has published poems in various venues, recently in Amethyst Review, Willows Wept Review, and One Sentence Poems. Her chapbook Play was published in 2016. She loves cats, gardens, chocolate, and murder mysteries.

© 2022, Jo Angela Edwins 

Leave a Reply
Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: