HE ALONE IS THERE.

I am a holder of dolls, said Monica, I keep them in my arms in light and dark, I sleep with one in my bed at night, her fuzzy hair tickles my face, my dreams are of my mother's cries, her anguish over the men who come. I am the bearer of her smacks, her voice vibrates in my ears, her hand marks colour my skin. My window looks out on fish shop below, the baker's shop on the left, on narrow Meadow Row, the bomb sites on either side. My mother's men come and go, they make her laugh or cry, they sleep beside her in her double bed, I hear their voices in the dark, the sounds of giggles or weeping, the slapping of hands on flesh, the darkness brings me bogeymen and shadows. One of the men, crept to my bed, removed my doll, touched my leg, lifted my nightdress,

our little secret he whispered to me, the darkness swallowed him up, the dirtiness left in his wake. I am the sleeper of light sleep; I listen for the sound of creeping feet, for the door knob to move, for the door to open, for the hands to touch, for the secrets kept. From my window I see the children at play on the grass below, with toy guns, bows and arrows, dolls and prams, they look for me to join in, to enter their games, the boys seek me as their cowgirl moll, they ride their invisible horses across the plains, shooting out their cowboy dreams. I watch the sky darken, the moon a silver coin, the clouds puffs of smoke, my mother calls me to meals, the table and chairs, old and stained, her man friend drinks and smokes, makes silly remarks, dirty jokes, me he pinches (under the table) or secretly pokes. I am the holder of dolls, they are my true companions, they never complain,

they share my dreams, they share my pains. From my window I see Benedict play, he alone knows of my plight, he my knight in cowboy shirt and jeans, my teller of tales, my listener of woes, he buys me sweets or chips after our games, walks me home with his 6 shooter gun resting in the holster by the side of his leg, his cowboy hat slanted to one side. He keeps my secrets, holds my hand over busy roads, eyes the men my mother brings home, guns them down in our shared dreams. I kiss his cheek as a kind of thanks, he blows me a kiss from his open palm as he rides the bomb site plains, he knows my fears of the men and my mother's smacks and the pains, he stares at my mother with his hazel eyes, his steady stare, he alone likes me, he alone is there.