The Life of a Digger

BY MARGARITA ENGLE

Henry from the island of Jamaica

Jamaican digging crews have to sleep

eighty men to a room, in huge warehouses

like the ones where big wooden crates

of dynamite are stored.

My hands feel like scorpion claws,

clamped on to a hard hard shovel all day,

then curled into fists at night.

At dawn, the steaming labor trains

deliver us by the thousands, down into

that snake pit where we dig

until my muscles feel

as weak as water

and my backbone

is like shattered glass.

But only half the day

is over.

At lunchtime, we see sunburned

American engineers and foremen

eating at tables, in shady tents

with the flaps left open,

so that we have to watch

how they sit on nice chairs,

looking restful.

We also watch the medium-dark

Spanish men, relaxing as they sit

on their train tracks, grinning

as if they know secrets.

We have no place to sit. Not even

a stool. So we stand, plates in hand,

uncomfortable

and undignified.

Back home, I used to dream of saving

enough Panama money

to buy a bit of good farmland

for Momma and my little brothers

and sisters, so that we would all

have plenty to eat.

Now all I want is a chair.

And food with some spice.

And fair treatment.

Justice.