Four Corners of the Earth

I.
She is twenty
As the wire handle digs
Into her sandpaper hands,
Walking stingy barefoot miles,
To acquire muddy water
For six dirt-smile children.

He is twenty
And target after curfew,
Head covered beside
Bullet-ridden body of a friend.
When the searchlight passes
He will sprint to the wall,
Cowering in warm manure until dawn.

II.
She is twenty
And with great effort,
Swats flies from her puffed eyelids,
Cradling a bloated infant,
Grasping a tin plate
In ecstatic anticipation of sticky porridge.

He is twenty,
Grasping the dusty jeep,
Machine gun strapped to back,
Desert sands blind the weathered face
Headed for a village of stick and straw,
Ripe with cattle and women.

III.
She is twenty
And sports agile wrist in chorus
With unforgiving metallic lathe,
Peddled and fed rubber,
A Harvest of tennis shoes
Until she loses her other hand.

He is twenty,
With bails of rice
Draped over his hard brown back.
When he staggers and cramps
The reminder is always a whip.
He shouldn't have criticized the state.

IV.
She is twenty
Sprawled on milky silk bed,
Plastic telephone to ear,
Wanting dresses, perfume and booze.
She forgot to take the pill
And Daddy has taken away the credit card.

He is twenty
Inside of stained white interior
Of speeding blood-red Porsche
Frat party with Coors and stopwatch
He's dizzy, no oxygen, a blur.
He just hit someone.