Wednesday, June 13, 2007


The Haitian is always smiling, gliding generic canned goods over the scanner with the expanse of his solid obsidian right hand. Blips march out unevenly down the line of registers, the noise consistently inconsistent until the drone of it is musical. He stands in the express lane closest to the door. He is never at another register, and I find myself putting back cans of peas and boxes of cereal to qualify getting into his line. His left arm ends at the wrist, five tiny nubs protrude like creamy, pink baby toes that have no strength or purpose, and it is this that draws me in. Jittering in my skin, needing to ask him the question, I am caught staring at the absence of a hand as I sheepishly fumble with my wallet having broke the countenance of his smile. Aleathia Drehmer 2007 Published by Juice 6/07

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