Porcelain Doll Poem by nathan martin

hands that hold the porcelain skin,
so familiar under the fossilized
layers to reveal, a little of a kept lie.

a calendar of days in her wrist
that seek to express but cannot
gesture

now she will paint her likeness
day by day from stensels in a mason
jar set beside the bathroom sink.

emotional faults ground into stained
glass form her frail statue.
the fractured pigments
of a vain reflection cast to
little light in the early morning.

but if she begins to break
how quickly the hands that hold
the porcelain skin

cover with paint all those
faults and broken edges.