Eye Contact

A very kind man with a deformed hand at the shelter showed me a 5 minute video from inside the very factory where his hand was mangled in a metal working machine. The real live version in comparison with dramatization videos on human trafficking is, unfortunately, bleaker and more sobering. These women and men in this factory work in near dark conditions, save the dull glow of a light bulb at the station they are at as they make computer parts for shipments sent to the U.S., Hong Kong, the U.K. This man makes parts for inside air conditioners and other household appliances. The parts in this factory are mass produced on old machines, many of which are malfunctioning or broken, but the work must be done. And done around the clock to make a profit. This man was working 16 hours a day and due to exhaustion, failed remove his hand quickly enough to avoid it being processed by the machine. After the video, I looked at pictures of his hand. It looked as if a bomb has exploded inside of his hand. The doctors were able to graft skin from his thigh onto the missing section to join pieces of his remaining hand. His photo documentary of the entire process was startling. I forced myself to look at the graphic images because as I struggle to understand the ugliness of human nature, I need to stand face to face with it. This poem emerged from my two intact hands as I type...pensive, lost in thought.

Warfare
One day, there will be compassion in spaces
filled with the hollow sound of machines
grinding
to a steady rhythm of weary soldiers.

Weaponless soldiers armed only with an undeniable sense of duty.

One day, there will be laughter rolling through tall grasses,
off the back of water buffalo,
when families long separated are reunited.
Chopsticks clinking gently against rice bowls, of people together again.

No richer, maybe even sicker, but together again.

That day is not today.

Today my heart thuds heavily, but steadily...fiercely.
Today I am haunted by lost limbs, listless stares, weak smiles.
Today I have to chase Joy
Hound it like a wild dog
Bite into it to capture my prey, this Joy.
Fake it into being.
Today I simply have to believe.
Make Believe.

because On Some Days, belief seems like
a silly fairytale within a work of nonfiction.
On Some Days, Joy is a fleeting, wounded soldier in a field of wavering shadows.

*Photo by Steve McCurry