~

         
It’s okay, the man said.  It’s okay,
little miss.  Living doll, know that?
Here, let me help you.  See that
big, fat, shiny grape  way  up
high?  Give me your hand
and I will help you reach. . .there
you go.  You are going to love
the taste.  Just like sugar.
Don’t worry, it isn’t dirty.  Here,
put it in your mouth.  Good,
isn’t it?   Let’s pick some more
from that bunch that is right over
your pretty little head.  See?
Eyes so big.  Hair so soft.  Let me
touch it one more time.  There, there.
. . .
Later, she touched a purple spot
at the top of her leg.   The first  
of several beginning with twisted
offers dangled by men who wanted
to help.  All had something she needed
to give.  Something very good, she
should be grateful.   The fruit
the grape man dangled was in a clump
that hung from crisscrossed strips
of unpainted wood over her 5-year-old
head.  Bumps on the  path he made tripped,
and a splinter dug real  deep.  Later,
the sun burned through.  Burned spots
into her eyes,  but she saw  dirt hair
clung to the blubber back of his neck.  
Teeth had gaped when she clambered
over the fence, starving for something,
or someone, sweet.   She had followed
her nose because she wanted to  know
what an arbor looked like.   Bunch
of twisted vines.  No thorns, but you bleed.
 
 
                 (c) Phyllis Jean Green,  April, 2007