Pobrecita Previous Home Next
  Late afternoon sunlight
filters the screen door.
Ana Maria sits on the couch,
both daughters on her lap,
all three in Sunday best dress.
The iron still out on the table.
Emiliana, the baby, six months,
spits, shrieks, smiles,
plays with her doll.
Ana Maria holds Rafaela’s head up,
strokes her, murmurs
pobrecita.

Whenever I think about it now,
I remember everything and feel ugly.
How could this happen to me,
to my daughter?

When I first found out I was pregnant,
we didn’t have the money
the clinic was charging.
My husband was out of work,
had been in an accident.
I was working in an office
filling out forms. In exchange for that,
when I was six months pregnant,
I could see their doctor on Fourth Avenue.

I saw him three times.
He came in in a white coat, said hello,
touched my stomach,
said everything was fine
and left the room.

04_pobrecita
  04a_pobrecita

Each visit lasted less than five minutes.
He was out the door
before I could ask
why was I so large?
Was I going to have twins?
Was there something wrong?

When I was seven months pregnant,
I had a pain in the top of my stomach.
I couldn’t walk, I couldn’t breathe.

The doctor touched my stomach,
said everything was fine.
But I knew something was wrong.
I went home, called the clinic,
please, would you see me,
my doctor isn’t listening to my pain.