Says she weighs a hundred pounds
wears a size seven now – six weeks
since she left town on the bus
That fifty pounds melted off
almost faster than she could pump in the amphetamines
sores inside her elbows, behind her knees
Won’t heal, but she’s thin and she likes that
she wants to come home – visit daughters
who live now with their grandfather
The baby’s father says if she comes to town
he’ll take the baby while she goes into
drug rehab but she can’t think
Can’t talk about him without her head
feeling like someone’s twisting it off and
how can she trust him not to bring home crack
While the baby’s there, him and his friends
weighing it out counting measuring
talking shit and shooting up the profit
Says she’s afraid
family’s all against her, won’t let her stay
don’t want her to call
Tell her she
brought it all on herself
I took you in when you needed a place
She whispers to younger brother sister
they turn their backs
how can you let me and the baby stay on the streets
You don’t know what it’s like
you haven’t got a Clue
jabbing herself in the chest
Her fingers clench into a curious half fist
one finger out stiff poking holes
into her chest
They remember her holding the big kitchen knife
in that clenched hand
almost sticking it into her stomach screaming
You don’t care shit about me or you’d help me
get help they say quietly to her
turn away again tears in their voices
And she knows she has them
for at least a day or so until she can rest
maybe find someone who thinks she’s alright
All she needs is a few days
Written in May 1994