I was pickpocketed by wily street kids.
I was bag snatched by knife wielding thugs.
I was emotionally manipulated out of funds
by my Spanish dance teachers.
An old woman with fire fused hands
grabbed my pants, begging, ‘Ayudame!’
A one-eyed man robbed a taco off my plate in a well priced café.
A grizzled old labourer knocked on our door, begging for food.
A local woman walked five kilometres carrying her live chicken
to make my room-mate’s birthday lunch.
I painted the toenails of a woman
silently dying of AIDS.
Third World Cunts.
To call them ‘Cunts’ is my highest form of compliment
because amongst all the slime, blood and hair
life begins there.
Christine Della Vedova (Western Australia)
An independent poetry journal. Watch your step.
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