Theresa never wears her teeth
so even as she naps in the chair,
her tongue darts in and out
like an excitable, fat, fleshy
garden snake. She mumbles things
in Italian, no doubt orders to
her children or long-lost songs
from Venice.

She dresses in pink and yellow dresses,
not quite baby, not quite woman.
She plays peek-a-boo when provoked
and laughs when you wiggle
your fingers at her.

She stole one of the other women’s dolls
and swears it’s her baby and just like
a baby, drags it behind her wherever
she toddles. She squeezes
the air out of her when she hugs it.
“Ma bebe,” she says.
We’ve decide to let her keep it.

01/02/2006

Posted on 01/03/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky