The Lost Language Of Dolls (Final Revised Version) Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

especially when I see them a little crowded on the shelves
in doll museum vignettes perhaps
I catch a glint of frozen history in their gaze
their taffeta belies;

some half attempted gesture that crumbles in the light
as if it were made of snow and then faltering.

nor rising to the occasion
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 in the breeze
they cannot feel oh I don't know...

stiffly beside the dolly steamer trunks
in gauze of blue and French rosettes
innocent of ruse and yet and yet

fixing your gaze in sorrowful surprise
with their sapphire glass and penetrating eyes
spoked with a wild and mysterious light

as if you had the key or knew the clue
to what they forgot to regret
tears cannot reach their eyes nor comprehension;

missing from their summer profiles,
left at the dock; dry handkerchief of lace
for years and years upraised, upheld without a trace

of tears for no remembered departure; they cannot summon tears
though they might wish to in bright array,

stitch of the marigold displayed for some belle epoch
out of sight and past curing.

in a while I will pack them all away
past all conjecture and enduring
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; 22 march 2023; 11 june 2024