Borinquen Doll

Stretched thin on her restless side
Mrs. Hernandez waits impatiently.
Staring at the phone, she anticipates
its urgent tolling. She recalls the
blessed day: All wrapped up as a gift
to herself, she bought the girl in
the window and peddled her home.

The child sat still, painted pretty
like a doll, on the supermarket shelf
waiting to be possessed.

“Never mind the thick plastic wrapping”
the label read, “this little girl is
a real Borinquen doll.”

Mrs. Hernandez left very pleased with
her buy: A curly head little girl.

She’s mine to possess
Mine and mine alone.
I will teach her the ways
of the binding cloth
and the barring collar.

I will hide her from the world
in my clean kitchen cupboards
and my walk in closets. There
she won’t be tainted with the
feverish touch. She will never
feel the hands of the exhibitionist
who celebrates the curves and the flesh.

I see them on the buses, with
their misery pinned to their backs
like wings.  They deliberately turn their
faces away from the the celestial light.
They curse out the clean air in the wind.

Mrs. Hernandez, she’s no witness
Her eyes are delicate, too delicate
for guttered faith. Her daughter walks
the night barefooted to places where
the gorged moon meets sharp edges
there she goes down dirty on dirty girls
spreading their wayward legs
inventing sweet nothings.

Mrs. Hernandez waits in vain
anticipating, stretched thin
on her restless side.
Her daughter won’t be coming home tonight.