mom is in a polar bear ensemble,
jackie kennedy smile, her body
a tattered fur coat. she blames
the stares on my blue socks.
no, mother—they are looking at
your head of blonde, dad’s jutting
beard. they are looking because
we are
white.
I am in a school girl skirt, wind
biting my thighs; she can’t understand.
with the cold she becomes
snapping, heels clicking;
she walks into a store she
can't read the name of.
down the market, I am found
gazing over plastic goods, the interested
American. a vendor woman offers a price
and I say no. no, she cannot
accept, taking my wrist like an octopus,
and I see the parents, continuing on
unaware. I call, but they do not hear.
then mom, the superwoman returns—
snatching my other wrist. I am a chicken-
bone, and once I am won, mom
frowns at my disruption.
when we have escaped, she tells me:
pretend you are the queen. hold
your chin up. but I think,
I don’t want to be the queen. I want
to be the child in burlap on the side
of the road, because only then could