Poem by Connie S. Brady

The Strawberries

We gorge ourselves on summer fruit,
The deep red strawberries dripping
Juice down our hands
As I open a text, see
A photograph from hell.
I push my dinner aside--
Warm tortillas filled with beans, rice, salsa,
Fresh lettuce, chopped tomatoes, sliced avocado
That could feed four people. Stare
At the cold glass filled with lemonade.
Instead of eating, I want to fast
For the skeletons on the front page
Of The New York Times--
Children, babies.
No food, no water, no aid.
No end to misery.
Too late.
Drops of water on tongues
Too late.
Morsels of bread
Too late. 
Mankind  
Too late.
We’ve had 300,000 years
To learn to care.
I fast, praying for food,
Water, medicine
As if it’s not
Too late while a mother watches
Her child, shot when reaching for food,
Die in her arms.
Blood drips down her hands.
Our hands.

THEME: Childhood Hunger

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Connie S. Brady is a writer whose articles, interviews, and reviews have appeared in Women’s Wear Daily, the Houston Chronicle, Houston Post, Galveston News, Arkansas Democrat, Key Magazine, and others. Born and raised in Little Rock, Arkansas, she witnessed the integration crisis from next door, as crosses burned in the yards of neighbors—both editors for the local newspapers. Brady is at work on a memoir. She lives in Houston.

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