Sandra McPherson: For a Buried Doll’s Head, Manufactured 1890s

Be careful, said the bottle miner,

Don’t let the dirt out —  

It holds her eyes in place.

.

Neither oak gall, puffball, nor pulled leek.

Dainty and dirty.

Even in her tear ducts

The matter of

Our root planet.

Veins of refuse

Through the crocus-blossom neck.

.

If empty, the head’s bisque cup

Could fill with flower tea

Up to the aperture eyes.

Mannerly, we’d visit

Even though her former home

Was privy and trash pit.

.

Revived thing of play,

People your age go into the ground

Tomorrow.

.

Wash your face? Never.

Cede a skull? Not a doll.

.

Go on biting that elfin stone.

Without your child.

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First published in Crazyhorse, No. 67, Spring, pp. 89-90. 2005.  Subsequently published in Certain Uncollected Poems, Ostrakon Press, 2012.