The Dolls, by Jacki Kari

Braids bouncing, coarse and black,
Lassoed with huge pink and teal beads,
She runs to catch up with her sisters.
Zigzagging wildly, the stroller she pushes
Holds a blank-faced white baby doll
Whose eyes flutter madly in the chase.

She is four—five, maybe, and chasing
The other kids, despite the approaching black
Of night.  She trips along, jostling the doll,
Lifting the stroller to run faster, the sweat beading
Glassy drops on her smooth forehead.  She pushes
Herself harder, panting out pleas to her sisters:

“Wait for me!  Wait!”  but her sisters,
Older than her and already chasing
Boys, shush her and push
Her aside, their nails painted red, black
Hands twirling the necklaces glittering with beads
Their mother’s boyfriend gave them, calling them all “Doll”—

Not bothering to learn names, just a blanket “Doll”—
Seeming to forget even their mother’s name, slurring, “Sister,”
Instead of “Julia.” His eyes, hungry and beady,
Slide over the knobby knees and elbows of the Dolls, chasing
Every stare with a smack on each black
Ass.  Resistance is awarded a push.

Their mother was blinded by fatigue, not a pushover—
Working days and collapsing at night in a house strewn with dolls.
Besides, kids are rowdy; bruises and black eyes
Are to be expected, she thinks, remembering her sister’s
Ever-present, inexplicable purple stains on a chaste
Body and the sniffles into her pillow, tears beading

Links of a chain that laced its slippery way through her hair.  Beads—
Was this their price, or should they push
For more?  In the street, still enjoying the chase,
The boys flirt with the Dolls,
The littlest hiding behind her sister’s
Knees, sucking on a little black thumb.

She watches as they push out their small chests, each sister’s
Teeth and beads glinting in the streetlight; they revel in the chase,
Their thick black eyelashes batting up and down like dolls.

 

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