At the Dichee Orphanage Just Outside of Llasa, Tibet

Little Andu with smile so wide,
ruddy cheeks hint of a happy child,
but your dark almond eyes own a sorrow
no child should understand.

Count to ten on fingers
bitten to the quick;
recite your ABC’s;
lead me by a tiny hand
to the musky sweet kitchen
rice boiling on the black wood stove.

Take me to the room filled
with rows of metal beds;
your own shared with yet another
lice-infected, head-shorn little girl.

You stand tall against the yardstick, taped
to the rough wood door.
Your shaved scalp tickles my hand
as I measure, announce, "thirty-five inches,”
and silently add of pure humanity.

Your tiny hands pull on my arm
and at my heart
toward a rusty cage that holds
a mangy black dog big enough to ride.

Pulled by the fear of failure,
pushed by a need to please,
you whisper a single English word – “dog,”
peek up from the corner of your slant eyes,
hope for words of praise from this
pale skinned grandmother of another world.

Little Andu, your arms squeezed around
my neck when time to say good-bye.
Your rough head prickled my chest, burned
a little girl-sized hole that lingers today
as I remember…..

Little Andu with smile so wide,
ruddy cheeks hint of a happy child,
but your dark almond eyes hold a sorrow
no child should understand