Martha
By: Georgia Lewitt
Tags: Life, Writing On Medium, Prompt, Poetry, Fiction

“If you’re ever in need, go to the poor,” the richest man in the world told his daughter.

And here she was, asking a beggar for help.

“Please, excuse me,” she said to a woman she found, looking decent and kind,

clean rags on, and polished patched shoes.

“Aha,” the woman mumbled, not looking up,

counting her coins in a cup.

“I’m new at this, what do I do? I have no place to sleep,

no food or drink, no money to buy anything.”

“Ahem,” the beggar cleared her voice,

“and you’re here because?”

“My father disappeared and I got left out

of my mansion, my car, my wallet and phone.”

She stopped to breathe, sighing loud and hard,

“I have no one I can turn to, no one at all.”

“You want me to teach you to beg, is that it?

I’m warning it will cost you, and you have to agree.”

The woman nodded, tear-streaked cheeks

burning with shame and a lot of guilt.

“See, those tears there,” the beggar directed,

good choice, only you need someone to watch you when you wipe them away.”

She nodded, distressed, failing to understand

why embarrassing tears had to be seen.

“First five days,” the beggar continued

“I’ll teach you and feed you, then you — ”

“Bless your heart,” she bowed with a crooked smile

at a coin clinging in her cup.

The stranger’s legs rapidly squandered,

afraid to be caught in their way.

“Then you’re mine, and mine alone, for five months,

do you agree?”

No, she thought, no no no no, never agree

on something you don’t know.

But she nodded her head yes, what else could she do,

she had no one and nowhere to turn to.

The five days went by with lessons and food

conspicuously tasty, warm and nurturing too.

The bed she was offered was soft in a neat room

that forever smelled of nothing but flowers in bloom.

The clothes she received were shabby-looking indeed,

but comfy, embracing, and so very homey.

Color returned to her cheeks, but the beggar wagged no,

her knobby finger resembling a toe.

“This is not something to show,” she shook her head too,

“you’re a beggar, remember? Health not part of your tune.”

The five months began and the woman became

the saddest looking beggar on that side of the realm.

People came to see, how could that be,

they offered her choices, lots of choices indeed.

The stories went round that she had had a baby

and a husband that drowned.

Her family home had gone up in flames

with parents in it, grandparents and pets.

She had walked over here from a land far far away

and all she had dear was this spot by the Seine.

“The extended hand must tell a story, a story untold,”

the beggar had ordered when she left her alone.

Someone called her Martha and Martha became

the saddest looking beggar on that side of the realm.

Her father returned from wherever he’d been,

and came to see Martha, like every other being.

He even once said, “You remind me of my daughter,

that I miss dearly.”

She looked right through him, as properly taught,

didn’t see or hear her father at all.

The father came back, again and again,

making it a habit to see her every day.

“You did so well my lovely, your five months are up,” the beggar told her and gave her the option

to leave now the bed that forever smelled of flowers in bloom.

She looked up and whispered, “No, Martha will stay,

my baby, my baby, will be back one day.”

The beggar replied, “A pity, you see,

your untold story got the better of you.

You can stay here, but your earnings are mine,

what to do with you I’ll have to decide.”

“Martha,” she said, pointing to herself,

grief-stricken face, bearing to match, “I’m Martha.”