One Of The Lucky Ones (The Treasure) - a poem

 The following poem was partly inspired by Daphne Milne’s Q&A post asking if members of this web-site could suggest poetry dealing with “Beginnings”.

Apparently it won’t be used in Ms. Milne’s upcoming poetry workshop, but it has been accepted for inclusion in the anthology “Stranger(s) In A Strange Land”. (See http://la-granota.com/stranger.htm )

Thanks, Daphne, for the nudge!

One Of The Lucky Ones (The Treasure)

I stand here on a new shore,

My knees trembling.

(Not because I am scared

– Although, I assure you, I am –

But because I have been on that hell-boat,

Crouching, crowded, cramped,

For eleven days.)

I am one of the lucky ones:

I waded ashore.

The soldiers are unloading the unlucky,

Some of whom won’t make it.

(There were others who didn’t make it

Even this far.)

I am one of the lucky ones:

I didn’t need to sell my body

To smirking guards at the borders.

My husband paid for the bribes

And my sea passage…

Though unknowingly. (In short,

I robbed him of what I needed.)

I am one of the lucky ones:

I speak English and we had satellite;

So I know that we aren’t on

The shores of Paradise.

I won’t be crushed by discovering

That all my problems aren’t over.

I know that it’s going to be difficult.

Doesn’t that make me

One of the lucky ones?

I am one of the lucky ones:

I carry in this one bundle

The greatest of treasures,

The most valuable contraband.

A Red Cross worker

(Noting my trembling legs)

Offered to take it from me.

But I will not relinquish my burden.

(At least not yet.)

My parents believe themselves cultured.

(I was spared the genital mutilation

Endemic in my country.)

But they sold me to a man more powerful

Than even my father: the chief

Of a village; the owner

Of one thousand goats, two wives,

And the only satellite dish within four days’ walk.

A powerful man but a boor.

Technologically ahead of the neighbouring chiefs

But backward in every way.

I endured him for three long years.

Even though I was intact,

He could not give me pleasure.

But he did give me my treasure.

And to spare her the knife, I ran.

I am NOT going back – and neither is she.

If they deny us asylum (such things happen),

I will kill myself. And she

Will be put into care (father unknown).

Until that time,

I am her mother, she is my treasure…

And I give her up to nobody!

She is one of the lucky ones:

In this new land, I know, there are those

Who will hate her for her dark skin.

For her beauty, she will be jeered at and spat upon.

But she will be intact: she will be whole.

She will not be sold as the third wife to a despot.

Not a lot, I admit.

… But it’s a start.

– Jimmy Hollis i Dickson

(30^th Dec., 2016 – 9^th Jan., 2017)