Rock Stew...From A Child's View Poem by elysabeth faslund

I watched my mother's hand stirring a boiling pot of rocks.
She said the moss covering the rocks made good soup.

I cannot taste anything anymore.

She puts something in the soup to make me sleep.
Sha says when I sleep, I won't be hungry.
I smile.

I watched my father's hands putting bullets in his gun,
then wiping them on his bare chest.
We had meat, then. And bread.
At night we laughed around our fire.

But strangers in the mountains were angry with us.
My father never came back.

My mother leaves at night. Sometimes.
She thinks I am sleeping.

One day a man brought us food, but I threw it up.
Dogs fought to eat it.

It will rain today. Lots of new moss on the rocks.
And scorpions.

I look at my hands.
I have never been hurt by them.

I am very lucky.