Carmen, you were seven. You sought me after school,
just came alongside as I marched away,
and fcll in stride. I caught your side-long glances.
Beneath your bangs and spit-curls you were pale,
your dark eyes shimmered, you were all eyes.
You talked a blue streak for a stranger,
and I hardly answered. I was shy of words.
You said you were afraid of our old streets,
men shouting at trucks backing in and out
of those huge factory gates, the eerie ring
of cobblestones, as in a spooky movie.
Day after day we walked each other home
to that last corner, where you turned away.
You said you'd cross the street, but I must watch.
I never looked for you except the day
you didn't show up, and I walked home alone.
I wondered if you'd found another friend.
Days later then I heard, while in a store,
holding the bread for mother, you were dead.
There were those women at the spice-laden counter,
saying your name in passing, as at an altar.
I listened in a daze, and looked for mother.
She said that we would stop to light a candle
on the way home at St. Mary-of-the sea.
There at the railing I picked out my candle,
and we said the ten Hail Marys, the Glory Be.
As we walked home my heart raced far ahead,
light-years ahead, I know, to this bright moment,
for now like a godess, stronger than Diptheria,
that godess of dead children, Carmen, you light my mind.