Addie, in Her Eighth Month

I feel as swollen as the moon
that bleaches dead fields. All the living
has stopped outside of me.

In winter, people pale
to the shades, faces faded
by cold and hunger, or fear of hunger.
Every February it's the same—wondering
if we'll have enough to make it through.

I could help by going, take this child
inside me north and find a factory job,
if I knew how to do it.

The teacher at the school went
last May, and there was talk of me filling in,
but no one would hire me in this way.

My father hasn't said a word
since last September, and that wife of his—
Cora tells me not to worry,
it will work out—but she's strong
as a mule, and that stubborn.
I am just afraid.