The Lost Language Of Dolls Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

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