Commie

You call me a communist
as if the insult
carried its own weight,
as if the idea that
everyone should have what they need
were blatantly ridiculous
and anti-American.
You say we all have to work hard for what we want,
as if you didn't know that the ones who work hardest
can't afford the luxury of wanting,
as if I didn't know that the ones who have that luxury
only know labor as an itemized deduction.
You say I have economics and politics confused,
that poverty is a social policy issue
and big business equals the American Dream,
and anyone, anyone can live that dream,
if he only works hard enough.

You say all that,
and I wonder how you can't see
that disadvantage means
there is someone with the advantage
,and power means there is someone without it,
and rigging the race and then calling it equal,
blaming those we fail for the failure,
is what the dream looks like up close.

You call me a commie
in your sums-it-up voice,
so you don't have to explain
how hunger and no health-care
aren't evidence of a system-wide flaw,
or how you can sleep in your big, warm bed
and never dream of the thousands toiling
to pay for a bowl of rice and
your private jet.

You call me a commie,
and I suddenly realize
that you really think I am a commie,
and that commies are the enemy,
and that the poor are poor because they choose to be,
and that you were born deserving everything,
and that poverty and hunger are issues best left
to be dealt with by bleeding-hearts like me.

You call me a commie and somehow,
I take it as a compliment.

Windy Kellems, 2007

Toddler

Chocolate smudged on one cheek,
dimple carved in the other:
“Let’s play.”
Sweet smile, bright eyes beguile --
such a little finger to be wrapped around,
but I’m happy to oblige.

Tiny toes writhe in pleasure,
teeny fingers curl over mine.
Pudgy palms push my hands away,
but quick wrists flick and dart in,
counting ribs – one- two, threeeeeeee!

Tangerine giggles wiggle out,
spring up toward heaven –
intercepted by a ceiling fan,
hurtled back to earth
to splash across my face.

Make up the story of three bears for me,
sing about twinkling stars.
Draw a picture and tell me what it is,
hold my hand and watch the sky change colors;
yes, God is painting again.

Curl up in my heart,
let sleep settle sweet over softness;
snuggle comfort content.
Gaze up, blink, know peace...pass it on to me.

Night sets in heavy on a round face;
moonlight casts shadows under crescent eyes.
Lids drift downward, chin turned upward,
I lean in to seal toddler dreams with a kiss...

such a tiny finger, but I’m happy to oblige.

Windy Kellems 11/07/01