Poverty defined
Three girls encased in cement.
Living in the walls behind
The oblong mirror in the hallway
White wall dust the only clue of the Secret
Door that opens at each quarter
Bing, on the hour Bong.
The girls take turns—first
The Vietnamese beauty. Her black
Hair falls piece by piece out
Of the hole in the wall, her dress
Torn under the arms and at the neck.
She thrusts one hand out, it shakes in
The light, pale as bleached flour.
The pimp pulls, she rolls and
Tumbles in the white dust. White on
Black, white on white. She welcomes
The pull, welcomes her sold flesh
Rubbing against the pedophiles
And the nymphomaniacs with rotting
Breath and no teeth. Sex better than
The hole. Her muscles burn, good they
Still work. Her blurry eyes tell her
She hasn’t gone blind yet. Fifteen
Minutes of light—her only gift. Raped
10 or 20 times a day and even This begins
To seem normal.
I wrote this poem a few years ago, when I first heard of sex trafficking. I was so horrified, I could not get the idea of it all out of my mind. Ironically, this was written on the back of a piece of paper at church. I dedicate it, in all its imperfections, to the 27 million* victims of human trafficking forced to live as slaves in the world today. Hopefully, is some small way, it will give a voice to the voiceless.
*This is an estimate. As you will find if you do any research on trafficking, getting accurate numbers is difficult. This is, after all, an invisible crime. Experts put the range from 24-32 million slaves. 27 million is the number cited by sociologist Kevin Bales in his book “Disposable People: New Slavery in the Global Economy.”