Little Me

by Priya Grace

Speaks in broken sentences or doesn’t speak 

at all, and certainly not to the crossing guard with the  

moon face. Sits on the floor of the hallway  

and mashes glossy black beans that bleed between her baby teeth 

like aphids swollen with citrus. She is seven 

and likes the smell of malt—tugged on my sleeve 

when I tried Corona Refresca Guava Lime. Not  

too much …  Little one has sick reflexes! Can  

swerve a size twelve sneaker like  

she’s D1 for dodgeball. I don’t want you here,  

I tell her, and she puffs her bottom lip. Goes  

back to her wooden horse. 

The next time I see her, she’s floating above our old bed, banking on the fact that  

her Caliban can’t fly. Dude is bug-eyed but earthbound, with a mouth like 

Brandy’s sailor.  

I cannot be touched because touch has an end. 

Somewhere, everywhere, night lights flicker on.  

Books replace themselves on the shelves 

and this time, when she comes, I rock her to sleep.