Ana Louca

(Brazil)

Antic-prone and crazy,

breast-feeding her dolls

through the streets

or on Sundays marooned

by herself in a pew,

she offered her litany

of curses and profanities

to no one in particular.

Thursdays she would come

demanding that which habit

had made hers by right:

the warmed leftovers

she wolfed down, leaning

against the green backdoor.

Finished, she rattled thanks

from the gates and was gone.

A packing crate her bedroom,

she slept by the docks.

Amid rags and broken dolls,

asleep and for once, quiet,

a grizzled girl

lulled by the ocean's rhythm

as if cradled in its blue arm.