Haiti, 1967

HAITI, 1967

Forty-three years ago
my mother and I,
ignorant and new to travel,
boarded a ship to visit friends
who lived and worked in Jamaica.
The mammoth floating palace of luxury
docked for one short enormous day
at a small port in Haiti.
We walked ashore on dirt roads,
mud-choked water with human waste
running down odorous ditches.
A gargantuan billboard loomed over us
promoting Planned Parenthood.
There were wide-eyed little children
doing hand tricks for money
or just plain begging
if they didn't have anything to perform.
There were no trees in sight,
no vegetables gardens,
no grass for cows or goats to graze.
There may have been chickens,
but I don't remember.
The worst of all was the horror
of young men in little rowboats
circling the ship
holding babies aloft by their small feet
and dropping them into the ocean
asking tourists to throw down
dollar bills.
The little folks paddled frantically up
from the deep and surfaced,
spitting out water
from their tiny noses and mouths.
I can never forget
how desperate the Haitians were
in 1967.

Sally Woolf-Wade
New Harbor, Maine
The Salvation Army