[to my Grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Milton B. Young
of blessed memory
and to Kenneth Grahame (for Dream Days and The Golden Age)]
the deep rose alabaster of the paper-weighted heart
is missing now; the wooden apple
streaked in gaudy yellow, green and red
that housed an apple tree tea-set for the minuscule,
brought back from the World’s Fair, happily…
in 1964; various dolls with
various dispositions, play explored
from an antique base camp
have stolen my dreaming away…
the one with the veil, the one pink-suited for a summer’s day
have wandered off into the Backyard grass never coming back.
the one with pearl drop earrings and a gown so rare;
the one that cried real tears - the flower sprigged tribe
I left one day, never whispering goodbye…
the ranks scattered, carelessly smocked-
pastel sashes untied and dragging
stitches, raveled in the Sun.
“How could she, with a broken candy heart?”
said Raggedy Ann, consoling the rest of them;
she sighed a Sweet Tart sigh (or luminous Luden’s cherry)-
smoothing the baby doll’s tears away
with both of her wide cloth hands…
“bid us adieu?” the French doll finished the sentence
with her curls askew, and that was that.
do they have regrets?
or do they wait in Heaven, trinketed-
with an expectation frosted night-light pink
where there is no night-
criss-crossing crepe paper on the vasty
Ceiling, Michaelangelo bluer than
blue (they’d have wings now; they could reach it)-
or actually consuming the candy corn
set before them by the angels,
banging little silvery bells in the interim
that melt into air to make it shine and
chiming and chiming
the necklace with one sparkle only of the aurora borealis
I shall pluck from all the others to wear, when it’s untangled
far from the jewelry box of
Eternal Summer teal-
there,
with the citrus constellations spilling over I first learned to feel
like a braille fairytale stamped out on the heart
in Arkansan dusk
just when my Grandfather, gazing up- said:
There’s the Big Dipper…can't you see it
(over the swaying pine trees, just...)
he'll welcome me, I know it’s true
with a brand-new Dutch Masters cigar-box
or the one with the Spanish lady on the lid in red, with a rose and a lace mantilla
emptied for my School Supplies
where no one ever leaves again-
with my Grandmother in her
pearly crown, or, I imagine:
a peach mantilla and a Chinese fan
pink-peony splashed on the ticketless
Holiday that’s not Pretend
that comes to each, in turn
at the last chirring of the music box, then-
the worlds without jeweled end…
mary angela douglas 14-16 september 2012
Note on the poem: in case you never knew or have forgotten, Sweet Tarts are a doll-sized candy, very chalky pastel, sweet and sour at the same time, and Luden cherry refers to Ludens cherry cough drops the only candy we were allowed to eat in grade school classrooms though the teachers surely knew we didn’t all have coughs every single day…
As I revised this poem the radio played Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony the lilting part, and afterwards the announcer said welcome to this very beautiful warm Late Summer Saturday, which was entirely the mood of my poem, transfigured. Serendipitous. Did the dolls arrange it?
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