Our doll had come to life and grown nine feet tall.
She couldn't read but all the same she told us the day’s headlines:
“One hundred and four children born in the New Year. Two of them with legs made entirely of
“Veterans of the last foreign war report hearing the voices of mushroom clouds.”
“Banana groves are rolling off their hills, leaving their roots face-up to the sun.”
She tucked us in and we fell asleep,
though we feared she’d peck us open like a bun.
Outside, mosquitoes gathered under an open sky.
The dark sugarcane farmers wiped the sweat from their hands,
prayed for their rib cages to bloom into crystals.