Hunger
by Amanda Huynh
The whole trip we had them—
small white pills
in our pockets. We knew
we were female,
we knew
how long the trip would take,
and we knew
the stories of La Bestia: a metal freight,
who claims
the limbs of men
at her feet. We, unsure
of the hands pulling us
onto the boxcar, prayed
for her blessing, to keep
our own hands
as other limbs lay
fallen
by the tracks, flies suckling
on rotting flesh. We wished
to be like La Bestia,
but we had them
in our bags while los coyotes broke
into the dust, etching us
through the space between Saltillo
and Tejas—one hundred and ninety-five miles.
Their boots familiar with every rock,
every burr
gathering on our cuffs.
Each day,
we checked
to make sure we had them
while our guides hovered
over us—half shepherd,
but full coyote
in the evening’s sun. Eight days of travel
and they began to pant,
sniffing heat. Exhaustion
would turn into steam fading
from their last warm meal. Searching
for the next,
their pants become hunger
as they’d pick us with their eyes:
an arm attached to a shoulder,
shoulder becoming a breast. One night
a thigh, a hard-on, another night
of waiting—for a mother to ask them to slow down
waiting—for the moment to offer help
in exchange
for her daughter. Other nights,
there’d be no offerings
as they’d take
a fourteen year-old girl. Her body
ten feet away flailing
in the night’s
dirt, her sister
pinned
by other paws. Each night,
we checked to make sure
we had them:
small white pills.
For the morning after.
small white pills
in our pockets. We knew
we were female,
we knew
how long the trip would take,
and we knew
the stories of La Bestia: a metal freight,
who claims
the limbs of men
at her feet. We, unsure
of the hands pulling us
onto the boxcar, prayed
for her blessing, to keep
our own hands
as other limbs lay
fallen
by the tracks, flies suckling
on rotting flesh. We wished
to be like La Bestia,
but we had them
in our bags while los coyotes broke
into the dust, etching us
through the space between Saltillo
and Tejas—one hundred and ninety-five miles.
Their boots familiar with every rock,
every burr
gathering on our cuffs.
Each day,
we checked
to make sure we had them
while our guides hovered
over us—half shepherd,
but full coyote
in the evening’s sun. Eight days of travel
and they began to pant,
sniffing heat. Exhaustion
would turn into steam fading
from their last warm meal. Searching
for the next,
their pants become hunger
as they’d pick us with their eyes:
an arm attached to a shoulder,
shoulder becoming a breast. One night
a thigh, a hard-on, another night
of waiting—for a mother to ask them to slow down
waiting—for the moment to offer help
in exchange
for her daughter. Other nights,
there’d be no offerings
as they’d take
a fourteen year-old girl. Her body
ten feet away flailing
in the night’s
dirt, her sister
pinned
by other paws. Each night,
we checked to make sure
we had them:
small white pills.
For the morning after.
Amanda Huynh is a native Texan living in Virginia. She attends the MFA Creative Writing Program at Old Dominion University. She was a finalist for the 2015 Gloria Anzaldúa Poetry Prize and recently was one of eight poets to receive a 2016 Intro Journals Project Award. Her work is published or forthcoming in the following journals: Tahoma Literary Review, Huizache, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and As/Us: Women of the World.
