peasant’s lament

Written by Trini Rogando
Art by Ali Hadbe

sometimes, good things happen
                   to me, not by me—no, these
trembling hands could never quite match
                   fate’s steady threads. disappointing. a
lack, a deficit, pretending to whet a blade &
                   wield a pen. so what, possibly, now.
these skin-strings ache for relief: suspended,
                   bleached and scrubbed to perfection,
or so i think. but really, i could never truly
                   adopt majesty; pride is something reserved
for queens, the loved, the girls with their voices
                   and temples of grain. reality is the
rain shadow of a mountain, its mouth so
                   mournful i don’t bother to look for
crop. in purpose comes power, in purpose
                   comes failure, and yet when i feel
my words still spill in whiteness & pearl.
                   unthreaded, or so i dream. so i will
mount the plow. put needle to cloth and poem
                   to page. take this small existence and
rise, hungry and shaking but crowning some-
                   thing good. faraway, half dead, fate says
keep going, keep going, i’m waiting—