Her

She sits on a pile made up of broken glass, dirt,

drywall – waiting for her mother – beads of salty sweat

dripping down her dark skin. She wears only a tattered

piece of linen that covers her chest down to

just above her knees, browned from a mixture of

dirt and dried blood – exposing red blisters on her fragile legs and

bare feet. Her lips are as parched as the Saharan land she lives

on and her frame is as frail as a poor man's wallet.

Her mother, stumbling up the road, carries a clay jug full

of brown water that smells like the putrid Earth beneath

her feet. She grabs the handle and wraps her lips tightly around

the spout while the sense of relief and the tingle of fear sit

inside her stomach. She guzzles each drop in a panic to

moisten her dry tongue, taking no pauses for breath. Gasping

for air, she settles herself down on a towel underneath

the tent her mother created with pieces of broken plastic and

sticks and stares at the jug, studying the lines notched in the clay

– following them around and around – lulled to

sleep by her mother's beautiful humming.