The dead men mean nothing. Grey. Incomplete.
They are on the same TV as Sesame Street.
Near her bus stop a tower for "Action News 10"
is the closest she’ll come to the dusty, dead men.
Her grandma was four when they came from Berlin.
She passed down two things; a lopsided grin
and a pale, China doll. The kind with the eyes
that opened and closed when she put it beside
her in bed when Dad came to turn out the light.
He kissed her, and the doll, and said, "I love you.
Goodnight."
But inside the closet invisible gears
twist memory images into the fears
that haunt and disturb her when she has become
the woman whom Daddy kissed when she was young
and the dark-haired young soldiers shake gibbering guns
translated calmly by invisible tongues. No
purchase, no friction on subconscious ice
we need something more intimate. Things
nasty-nice and far deeper:
the time when her mom
cut her hand while spreading cake frosting on
(red drips) on pans and the line of dark-ribbon-red
spilled on the floor and she slipped in it banging
her head on the door and the
China doll falling, turns cartwheels in air
first feet-first then pulled round round
round by the hair she remembers
[when Bunny lost all of one ear,
he is still whole and "Bunny." And the time that she tore
the foot from Pink Poodle she still held him,
adored, nothing vital removed]
but the doll,
as it (she) falls,
hair first to the floor
eyes open-close-open
golden hair
bending more
more more
more impossible
clean white still life
shattered Mom’s
wound in clear tape bound
mumble red knife
Crazy Glue but a doll
no headless
can’t be
doll no again any-
more
no
no more
please