she is a perfect caricature of childhood;
the palest of freckles on the bridge of her nose,
wide gray eyes - baby eyes, her momma always said - and lips that curve more towards smiles than frowns.
she spins and twirls and the rough cement bites at her feet,
but she is a wild child.
that kind of pain does not bother her.
her daddy used to tell her she looked just like an angel;
her fair hair was a halo, short curls all strawberry blond.
she likes to think she feels like an angel, when she dances
and she can forget that daddy died a devil
and momma killed the baby.
gypsy blood, they used to say,
makes for a strange person.
can't stay in one place, can't stick to honest work, can't live but the way of the traveler, the nomad,
the gypsy.
she knows.
what frightens her - not storms or cold or empty pockets, tired feet, growling stomach - is that she's lost.
imagine that, she is sure momma would say, a lost roma.
but the world is not the way it used to be.
she can remember the way the winds would sing to her.
her feet would follow.
the skies would dance,
and she would be their audience when no one else would look.
that was years ago.
now there are no more songs.
no more dances.
the world is dying.
she knows.
because who better to know - to know, and to perish first - than the wild child? |
Submission Name: wild child. 
