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

especially when I see them a little crowded
in doll museum vignettes perhaps
I catch a glint of some 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.
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 winds
that cannot blow 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
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 bright departure;
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 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