The Bruise

Poverty is...
...the bruise on Amber's arm.
Pulsating, purple.
Vivid and violent.
Snaking its way from the front to the back,
torn up capillaries like trees after a tornado.
A massive bruise that makes you wince
and wonder, "how..."

Poverty is a bruise so public and alarming
that perfect strangers on a bus offer Amber phone numbers to safe houses
and encouragement to leave him.
If only she could.
Because this abuser leaves bruises on her flesh,
and slices worry lines into her sweet young face.
He denies her dinner.
And breakfast.
And lunch.
Til she's at the point of fainting.
(You know, those days when there's no more in the pot after the babies have eaten.)
Yes, this abuser's a mean son of a b**ch.
But there's not a restraining order in the world to keep this one at bay.

See, poverty has found his way into her veins.
In through the puncture wound
out of which the plasma flows
when the money's low.
Lifeblood flowing with a generosity that's both beautiful and terrifying
to someone who's used to her veins
(and her wallet)
being contained, predictable, private.
Poverty wormed its way in and spread like a pandemic,
branding her body as a member of its herd.

Poverty is the bruise on Amber's arm.
Pulsating.
Purple.
Vivid.
Violent.