Hand-stitched quilts dance
from taut plastic lines
strung by determined
denim-skirted matrons.

We defend a card table laden
with diminutive t-shirts, packets
of notes bearing scribbly insignia
of children’s art.

The pot-bellied auctioneer barks,
Your kids for one day.
We’ll take them away.
Ten. Do I hear twelve dollars?

My eight-year-old whines for pink tickets
I jam quarters into her sticky outstretched
palm, as my legs push the baby away from
kittens-for-sale in a cardboard box by my feet.

A child enters the compound alone. Her eyes
give full attention; her bow lips are pursed. Perhaps
she is nine; her shiny bald head incredibly smooth
reflects the noonday sun. Balancing herself on crutches,

She swings one thin leg back and forth in marching rhythm.
Her red and white striped shorts, top wave freely—
keeping time. Closing my eyes, seeing hollow stares of
Auschwitz survivors, survivors flash before me.

A bruise that didn’t heal
Diagnosed on Thursday
Amputated on Monday
Robust build
Thick raven hair.

Abandoning my station, weaving through cupcake faces,
I see children clutching baggies full of cool water and
desperate goldfish. There she stands in balance,
transfixed by the electric music of the peach fuzz boys.

My four-year-old tugs at my sleeve, wanting me to help
her solve the riddles of Treasure Island. I send her off
to join the band of small fingers lavishing layers of
psychedelic icing on round bland cookies. Now I search

The eager faces tilting skyward to receive new identities
such as cats, Indians, and clowns. I cannot find her.
The pavement burns my feet. I seek the cool
linoleum of the indoor puppet show.

There on the piano bench, crutches at ease, silently smiling,
she reaches into the pocket lady’s skirt for a Chinese
finger trap. On her left cheekbone
is a perfect painted rainbow.