A farm, your mother said, promising you’d learn picking. Your father pocketing the baht, waving goodbye. Now here’s the train come to take you away. And the ferry, its deck slippery with dirty water. Here is the flatbed flying through the tangled roads. Here is your room with the cot, no mirror, no faucet. A door that bolts on the outside. Fill the bucket whenever you can. You have one window, laced with wire, in which to look at the fields. Here is the man who comes each day. He keeps his boots on, his stained shirt, his pants around the knees. Here are the seconds like fire in your head. Here is the coin he drops into your bowl when he leaves. Here are the fruits you’ve never tasted, new words you’ve never heard. Do what the owner says. Rice and school and shoes for your sisters. Here is the sound of the mouse chewing through your wall. And the train in the hills, screaming through the stations.

About Donna Obeid

Donna Obeid is an award-winning author and educator who has been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize. She earned a BA in English and Comparative Literature from the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, and an MA and MFA from American University. Donna grew up in a suburb outside of Detroit, has worked and lived in Southeast Asia and North Africa, and currently lives in Stanford, California. Read more of her writing at: www.donnaobeid.com.

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