Poem
Maxine Beneba Clarke
The rate
caught skint
at the iga counter
frantic hands searching threadbare jeans
sorry, guess i’m short on change today
forgot my card
as you put the tampons, washing liquid,
and your pride
away
weighed down by life,
and weighing up
between bread, milk
bananas, nappies for the baby
more have lived it
than would care to say
that’s the thing, isn’t it,
about cultivating shame
sometimes,
i think about
what welfare means, literally:
the happiness, health,
or fortunes of a group;
a social effort, designed to promote
the basic wellbeing of people in need
but somewhere along the line,
it came to mean greed
saying things like stop-gap
and it’s not meant to be permanent, anyway
but the damage, that’s permanent:
there are always things that stay
the sheer heart-weight of every time you said
nah, i already ate today
ladling out to the kids, your mum, the flatmate
or your lover, the last
of the bolognese
knowing they know, that you know, that they know
you’re lying, that’s what stays
and all the nights you lie awake
’cause the new place is so close to the highway
you can hear the windows shake
printer’s broken down, library’s four k away
need to print your résumé,
the pair of shoes you have will get you there
but might not hold together
for the interview on wednesday
you don’t shake that off
when you finally get a job
the knowing you’ll die sooner
from red ink on bills
and it’s harder for hungry children
to learn nine times tables
the indignity,
that’s what stays
the failure
standing in the job-find line
day after day
hoping no one who knows you hears,
as they loudly call your name
what stays
are the smug looks
of men in suits
who earn more
than a fortnight stop-gap
in a single day
as you’re begging them
as you’re begging them
to raise the rate
raise the rate
of those who’ll live
to tell the tale
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