Gypsy Dolls

These gypsy beggars drug their babies

better to carry them all day.

Lolling doll heads cradled to withered sunken chest

Needle stigmata on tiny hands

wet with vodka shots and whiskey sweats

of this parading nightmare

through subways cars,

down alleys noosed to scribbled signs

made by pushers and pimps.

Shackled to that promissory fix

in exchange for the beggars cup.

Milkless breast weeping black tar

on dirty scarves worn to cover

cigarette burns, track marks, razor scars.

Insertion points to punish and pleasure

women sold into bondage.

Interchangeable parts: the women and babies.

Paired up and pushed out to saunter

with kabuki masks of horror.

Strike pity in the hearts of pedestrians,

street vendors, cops, passengers.

Even the clouds shower them in tears

knowing man’s carnal machination

snare unwanted newborns and prostitutes

into a charity masquerade.

These babies want for no food now,

only the syringe soothes their noddings

and placid drools. Their uncrying eyes shut

to the blinding light of day.

they only see at night now,

only the moon is known to

their burning bodies.  

When they are killed it’s by overdose,

wanting all day sleep and no profit impediments

the men shoot them full of heroin

until they stop thrashing about

and become that perfect little beggar doll.

Their seizures wake the women,

writhing in the tied-cloth shoulder cradles

Little fist-shaped hearts tear tissue,

rupturing tender muscles

into shocked contortions.

And out comes the bloodshits.

And out comes foaming fermented vomit

gurgling cries, lightning stabs their eyes

flung back eyelids reveal silver and purple iris

fluttering like falling leaves.

Some times the women carry the dead babies

for the rest of the day as props.

snaking through the Port Authority,

running down your back, poking out your eyes

carrying the swollen stones that used to have names

but will now be churned back into

the nameless pity that creeps like well water

into the eyes of Gods.

And here comes that gasping exhale,

when lungs empty the ethereal into wind.