The Novel Is A Dollhouse

[dedicated to my sister, Sharon, a great pianist and:the English teachers who rationed my adjectives]

the novel is a dollhouse

in which characters can be

rearranged

they have bendable joints

whether they are in the parlour

with the mauve carpet

or positioned happily by the rose-

sprigged taffeta curtains

in the grandmother's sitting room with its

rose leaf-green

tinted walls its

tiny hatboxes on the topmost shelf

its delicate tea service polished on Saturdays

and the petit-fours on display

that somehow never get eaten

(they're for Company)

the novel is a dollhouse

especially on holidays

you can see:

the minuscule bubble-lit

Christmas tree

and forever the fairy lights

at the frosted front-window

right between the caramel armchair

and the table-top fleur-de-lis lamp

with its circle of butter-cream light illumininating

just as it begins to snow.

(will they ever open their presents?)

in the kitchen off the

dining room stand

the children with their

heaped up plates

of pink divinity candy

on a pattern of

old country roses

(they got straight A's)

they are bewitched

by the poems of Walter De La Mare...

the rest of the dolls

are downstairs watching TV

probably "The Wonderful

World of Color" in black

and white or "Brambly Hedges",

getting banana splits and finger paints all

over the rag rugs, playing

with matches as best they

can, waving the butter-knife and

taking turns

running with the pinking shears

slamming doors.

helping themselves to

the last of the spumoni-

they cheat at Candyland.

and the floppy dog runs

in fired-up curlicued circles

with a chicken-pie je ne sa quois

that Raggedy Ann can't

understand, so she just keeps

smiling, smiling, smoothing her white

pinafore under the shade tree

by the lemonade springs.

and the furry dog flies through the

fenced-in yard with the gate left wide open

past the green metal garden chair

the neon nasturtiums

and the bean stalks...

there's the charming sister in cherry-violet velvet-

Belgian-Irish lace-

still seated at the music-box tiny gold piano

polishing off her maple-red Scarlatti,

"An American in Paris," and.

"Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer" simultaneously-

forever changing music history;.

the glittering sounds are far-reaching-

lifted over the candy-striped swing-set

and the circus tent-

wafting over the mimosas

straight into the Giant's castle

(how very brave)-

while the Lily Pons doll

-in fresh pink organza-

thinks in arias, quickly,

how to save the stage-

and offers her pink-ice earrings for ransom...

but it's too late

the adjective egg timer on the teacher's desk

boils over, (not a bicycle bell)...

and means it

mary angela douglas rev. 11 october 2011 from version of 18 august 2009