Worn by Rene Reyes

Twenty-two felt like faberge eggs,

3 inch corvette-red nails and gucci attire.

She makes it look like corner yard sales,

where the sweaters carry the stench of moth balls

the forecast is sunny, yet a heavy black rain

proves again that life is created on lying principles.



If I recall correctly, it really was quite simple,

if I discount the truth of tragedies, the pungent pain

and the ghost of Christmas past.



But I look at her, and my first reaction is

to steal her from her momma, bring her here

and let her taste the other side of a wooden spoon.



How can I do that? I mean, she is grown and I,

well, I am the example she despises on the inside,

sure, she loves me, because Auntie me always brings

a sweet surprise; she just wishes I was still cool

and able to hang like she does. Somewhere over the years,

in her eyes, I grew up and messed up; I broke a silent

code that left her to make up life daily; afraid and alone.



When I peer deeply, I still see this beautiful baby, in a dirty diaper, which never stayed fastened on the right side, giving us over exposed infant hips. A living babydoll, is what I use to call her.



But on the surface, I see a child forced into womanhood, branded a bud head, and from the tremors, I would guess

she's taken a fancy towards primo filled blunts.

I see her mothers errors and her fathers faults.

I see a woman who lives with real ticking,

until one day she either crosses over or

takes her own life.



What can I do? She's like my child, yet she's a mute

to common sense and I can't speak her language,

so I shall be pushed to share her mothers tears

if we get that call one day.