Poem by Ceredwyn Alexander

Starving in Suburbia.

She snaps the card through the reader, hiding it like a scarlet letter
The card scanner emits a rude little buzz.
Everyone knows what that sound means.
The woman glances around apologetically.

I remember how my mom smoked and drank milky tea.
I smoked, too, and pretended to diet at school
So, no one questioned why I never ate lunch.
We ignored the fact that the fridge held just half-n-half.

The cashier patiently explains that SNAP won’t cover tampons or pads.
The woman nods and puts them aside.
Will the woman make it a virtue? She looks like the hippy, crunchy-mom type.
Cloth pads are both sustainable and in vogue.

Years ago, before it was chic, I sewed my own pads.
I bought used flannel sheets from Goodwill.
I called it environmentalism rather than poverty.
Sometimes, dignity is in the stories we tell.

The cart’s contents mark the woman as “new money-less.”
Veterans of this life know better than to buy fresh vegetables.
They need to be prepared. They’re not shelf-stable.
She has name-brand yogurt and organic milk.

For my mom and I, it was a secret so deep,
We never spoke of it even to each other.
I learned to pocket the crackers and condiments at Denny’s
When I had two dollars for coffee.

Behind me in line, I hear grumbles.
The woman puts more food in the cannot-afford pile.
It is a familiar move to me, but she hesitates, confused and unsure.
The most expensive food is the most nutritious.

I remember how I passed food stamps to cashiers like a drug deal.
Otherwise, some do-gooder would chip in “helpful advice.”
Explaining how food on a budget was “not that hard.”
My every choice the wrong one.

The woman’s mouth hardens as she glances at her little girl.
She puts back the box of cookies, keeping the apples.
It’s still not enough. She hesitates over the almond butter.
Instead, she puts back the chicken.

We pretended our bread and jam suppers were just a quirk,
A throwback to my mom’s childhood.
My soft, famine-adapted frame melted,
Collar bones jutting sharply, visible when I wore T-shirts.

I look at the total on the display. It is pitifully small.
“Oh, hey,” I say, pretending to be casual, unbothered.
Pretending that my heart was not overcome with vicarious shame,
I make eye contact with the cashier. “I got this.”

The school counselor pulled me aside,
“You lost so much weight. How did you do it?”
Easy, I had to pay for gas.
The counselor talked about eating disorders and asked if I was depressed.

The cashier’s eyes light up, meeting my gaze.
I know it hurts her to see this, all day every day.
She would let everyone have their food free if she could.
“Great!” Her tone is light. Pretending like me.

I remember my counselor’s eyes were as kind as the cashier’s.
I frequently got passes to see her for little chats.
I knew better than to speak of why I was depressed.
And I was more interested in eating the M&M’s on her desk.

The woman turns. Takes in my blazer and heels.
“That’s really nice of you,” she mutters, looking away
“No worries!” I speak too loudly, my stomach flip-flopping.
In my imagination, my current self is saving my past self.

​I hand the cannot-afford items to the cashier to bag. No filet mignon here.
Fresh fruit and veg and just a few scant treats.
Now, the mom has tears in her eyes and the scanner chimes.
Across the street, the food pantry has a line around the corner.

Ceredwyn Alexander is a writer, poet, and many other things. She lives in Virginia with her family and a menagerie of support animals.

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