By Melissa Wysocki
A baby’s cry echoes from the streets of a small Chinese town;
I am discovered.
A man holds me, caresses my cold, gentle body.
To keep me as his own, his only wish.
She hides bruises of her father.
To escape him, is only a dream.
Constant rage never ending.
Two weeks pass,
and he loves me like a father.
A Chinese village does not allow this kind of love.
Words pass from one another.
She locks herself in her room,
to conceal herself from future pain.
The door broken down,
her father rages with anger.
Policemen at the door.
The love is taken away forever.
I remember babies crying,
for all the nannies help.
Five loud, lashing whips with a belt
leave red stripes on her side.
The red transforms to a purplish-blue,
leaving her with terrible throbbing.
Babies wait for homes,
waiting, waiting, and waiting.
I now have a new family,
who takes me home to a country they call “America.”
To sequester this purple pattern
is like attempting to hide the sun.