Peruvian Child by Pat Mora

 

Still in the middle of my path is the child

with no smile who stared at us.  Her eyes

even then the eyes of women who sell chickens

and onions in outdoor markets.  The women

who stare at us as if we are guards. 

 

She whispered to the doll with no face,

smoothed the red and blue scraps

of cloth on the path, ironed them with her hand,

wrapped and re-wapped the doll, hair

mud-tangled as the child's, and the dog's,

and the llama's that followed the child's

small bare feet after she bundled the doll

in the striped manta on her back.

 

The matted group stood by the edge of the spring

watching us drink clear, holy water of the Inca,

a fountain of youth, our guide said.

We wanted, as usual, to hold a picture

of the child in a white border, not to hold her

mud-crusted hands or feet or face,

not to hold her, the child in our arms.