Pan Dulce

A little girl stands in the doorway.
She is thin and tall like bamboo stalk,
skin dark like blood, her head
a thin-wired circus of hair.
Around her neck, a silver necklace and heart-shaped
locket reflects a sun’s muted light.
She carries a bundle of pan dulce,
each piece of bread pregnant with sugar,
golden crisp around the edges.
There are conchas, orejas, and churros.
She tells me they are homemade,
that her abuelita bakes them in the mornings,
sets a basket on the kitchen counter—
ready for when she gets home.
From door to door, she haunts neighbors
in a trampled school uniform.
Dollar bills wrestled in her palms,
proud and tired and breathing,
she sheds a papery husk, 
one door at a time.