Her small fingers are heady with glue.
Paper and sticks fall into place
like prisoners shackled to stone walls.

Every umbrella is shelter from pinches,
her latest uncle. If she works fast,
there’s a bowl of rice for supper.

She calls them her unborn souls,
the fuchsias and saffrons that paint
away dark smudges from her skin.

Some nights escape consoles her.
The ninth-story window opens to rooftops,
looks down a garbage-piled alley.

If she closes her eyes and jumps,
she insists the parasols will ribbon
themselves to her hair, break her fall.