Aiko Harman

Only Child

—
The cars on Gilbert Boulevard
start and stop at the crosswalk—
a muffled honk and the peel of tires.
Inside, hamsters spin in their cages
on squeaky wheels.

I sit on an orange swatch of carpet—
the one in the patchwork design
that I call ‘Mars’.
Not the brown bit, ‘California’,
or the avocado ‘swamp’.

With the door shut, clutching
a Barbie doll in each hand,
I make believe the blonde doll
is the big sister of the one
which looks more like me.

She chaperons her plastic sibling
to the blue patch, ‘ocean’,
and they spend hours swimming
together in silence. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _