by Jane Hammons
Where she came from kachinas, baskets, pottery and tiny totem poles filled windows.
There people told her she needed change. She cut her hair. Got facials. Massaged. Manicured. Weight lost and gained. It was that finally, the weight, the gain and loss of it, that sent her to the bus station where she'd bought a ticket to here where she knew nothing of anyone. No one anything of her.
She filled the empty stroller from Goodwill with what it might have held: blankets, animals, things babies suck and chew on.
Here when she pushed it down the street they did not know what might have been when they peeked in then looked away. The emptiness signified nothing. Maybe something.
Whenever she stopped at the window to fuss, adjust the blankets, rattle the keys, tuck the bunny dog and bear tighter together, the woman inside came out and made her offering. A paper bird. A feather with eyes. A Buddha candle fabric blue and white incense burner tea cup tea.
When she was ready, she left the stroller near the tracks, returned to the window, lit the lanterns strung on string, bowed before the gods unknown, opened up the little drawer and crawled inside.