Nilsa Mariano

Paper Dolls and Boxes

There were days I could not stay outside a minute longer,
The noise scraping and poking like sharp knives.
Inside I grabbed my blanket, boxes and dolls.
The space between my parents bed and the window was just enough room,
Scissors and magazines laid out,
I unclench my fists to cut out pictures of gardens, beaches and clothes
to glue onto empty shoe boxes.
My paper dolls liked bathing suits, big kitchens and pool houses.
They aspired to be snobs.
They liked the things I imagined belonged in fancy houses,
fancier than our two bedroom apartment in the Vandyke projects.
Such a pompous name for what others called a slum.
The real satisfaction was the quiet in that space,
Warm sun filtering through the sheer window curtains,
soft light gently tracing my paper bathing beauties as I carefully cut,
sitting on my beach blanket atop cold tiles.
I leaned against the tall headboard, a paper doll in each hand,
In the other room Mami plays soft boleros on her record player,
loud enough to dim the sounds of sirens, screams and fear,
our safe zone away from the foreign
outside

Nilsa Mariano: I graduated from Binghamton University New York, in Comparative Literature. I have been published in Stone Canoe, Five Minute Magazine and MicroFiction Monday Magazine and Chicken Soup for the Latino Soul.