The Last Doll
                         
                    Quinceañera tradition
 
“It’s like you're getting married,”
she whines, embarrassed by tissue paper
blooms, dollar store tiara and puff sleeves.
 
Old people polka. Her friends sulk because
there are no high school guys to crush,
only little boys who run with sparklers,
 
flashing shoe polish and candy cigarettes.
Her brother flirts with some Sonoran
cousin my God she don’t even speak English...
 
When the DJ starts a club mix, girls pitch
their white chapel heels to the grass.
They dip and twist while grandmother sinks
 
into a lawn chair and hums. She gazes
into the cyan sheet of sky, holding
the unwanted porcelain girl in her lap. 

Pinyon Poetry Journal, 2024