On Lange's Migrant Mother

Armed not with that ravenous appetite

Of bloodlust, of us, us.

The humming leading to glorified murder – but a camera.

And with it

A legacy, a reminder of the sanctioned suffering of man -

Out of sight – out of mind forced

In silver gelatin prints

For though it lasted a moment

It’s been immortalized

For the rest of us to suffer along with -

Dorothy Lange’s Migrant Mother

With the wrinkles, weary, clinging

To the children

Clinging to a newborn

With the worry – with the absolute need

And expectation of a full stomach

This starvation glazes over in her eyes

With the realization

Of unbridled poverty

And painful, lethal starvation.