She is the perfect image of a rag doll
I saw when I was a child, in a trash can,
dirty, ripped abandoned:
here in the Kalahari is that same
doll, maybe five, eyes huge, legs
white with desert dust.
Ke Kopa madi, sir, ke kopa madi.
Money: I shake my head no, no madi:
try to move on. But she stares at me,
No longer begging. Her eyes
wider than before.
I crouch down,
she approaches me, nose to nose,
tattered, filthy, she stares at me,
Then her hand moves to her chin
and she says Oh, in a tiny,
surprised voice. She rubs away
the dried spittle there.
Then she turns and,
whitened heels kicking up dust
like marble, dances away,
a tiny queen
in an endless ballroom.