especially when I see them a little crowded
in doll museum vignettes
I can't forget some frozen history in their eyes
their taffeta belies
some half attempted gesture that fails each moment
as if it were made of snow
the something they would tell if they knew how
of what befell, of what may befall us yet
beribboned or in vague straw hats with silk roses
in their Victorian poses or
in gowns of tulle with parasols intact
posed beside the dolly steamer trunks
in gauze of blue, French furs
as if you had the key or knew the clue
or heard: the one thing
that is missing from their summer profiles
left at the dock: dry handkerchief of lace
for years and years upheld
stitch of the marigold: for some belle epoch
out of sight and past curing.
in a while I will pack them all away
past all conjecture
or maybe in a dream one day
they'll start to speak
slowly at first warming to the sun
of being paid attention to at last, soul to Soul
and everlastingly
and then I will understand everything.
mary angela douglas 13 january 2022
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