Poetry

A bleak, mildewed sump cellar just permits
The girl to breathe. It's late: Men will come soon.
A casement high above her bed emits
A sallow luster, pale as Hades' noon.
They promised her work: Housekeeping, sewing.
Her own papa arranged it. Ten pesos
And a pint of 151. Knowing
She'd try to escape, they dosed her a dose
Of barbiturates here in Jackson Heights,
Beat her, raped her, tried to induce despair.
Cursed, dismal dungeon, where she recites
Her brokenhearted, broken English prayer:

Guadalupe! I nothing have to lose.
I far from you. Sincerely, Anna Cruz.