In the bedroom
scattered with sunlight
like crumpled balls of paper,
they stir, waking up
to the sound of a tuneless song.
She walks past,
shrunken buttocks swaying,
beating out a rhythm
on the small drum she holds.
They ask me what the song means,
prying, eager, as if checking out
the sex of a newly born.
I translate her poverty
the hunger she eats,
the hunger she expels,
her dwelling place
whose air is sprinkled with untouchability
her oppressed community.
I speak the words, becoming her.