by Earl J. Wilcox
She came to our modest southern town
almost ten years ago, brought her two
children, her husband was already here
from somewhere in Mexico. We never know
exactly where. She washed dishes, swept
floors, sewed on buttons at Kim’s laundry,
sent her kids to school, loved her husband.
Three years ago---her improved English
obvious—she went to work at Salt Water Seafood
down on East Main Street. Every day
the same hard work---cleaning shrimp,
carp, cod, cat fish, learning to meet
and greet customers.
When the masked gunman dashed
into the store, she stood still,
having learned from Capt. Breen exactly
what to do if someone is going to rob you:
give the money, don’t be brave, don’t try
to figure out who is robbing you. Above all,
don’t call a cop while the robbery is in progress.
She did as the robber said: put the money
from that drawer in this plastic bag.”
He took the money, turned toward
the door, returned and shot her in the face.
Bleeding, she fell down. He stood over her,
shot her twice again. He was a bad shot.
Her husband, children, friends, and
community are glad she’s alive.
Capt. Breen says she’s a hero.
Earl J. Wilcox founded The Robert Frost Review, which he edited for more than a decade. His poetry was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
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