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Brodsky, Lisa Marie / We nod our dark heads: poetry
(2008)
The bebe, p. 21
Page 21
The Bebe Theresa never wears her teeth. Even as she naps in the chair, her tongue darts in and out like an excitable, fat, fleshy snake. She mumbles things in Italian, no doubt orders to her children or long-lost songs from Venice. She dresses in pink and yellow, not quite baby, not quite lady. She plays peek-a-boo when provoked and laughs when you wiggle your fingers at her. She stole one of the other women's dolls. She swears it's her baby; like the woman/child she is, dragging it behind her wherever she toddles. She squeezes the air out of her when she hugs it. "Ma bebe," she says. Who are we to separate mother from child? 21
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