The Doll

 

A doll of porcelain
With some others
Sits high upon
A bedroom shelf.

You take her down
And curl her hair
On an eve
Of Saturday.
And so she shines
With bouncing locks
On Sundays
With the Angels.

She dons a
Bright white frock
For Communion
With the saints
And frolics up
The church aisle
Resplendent
In the sun.

In a woollen suit
Of awkwardness
She is Confirmed
In between
Childhood
And leaving
On a Galway afternoon.

Cladding her
For Marriage
In a gown
With pearly buttons
Taken from
The miniature,
Now they fasten
A little coat
Knit to warm
The tiny heart of
Some other’s
baby doll.

Struck down
This doll has fallen
Smashed
Against the ground
Her body cracks
Head rips apart
Your doll
Forever broken.

No longer yours
For the mending.
The doll is anointed
With healing oil.
Exposing openly
What lies beneath
The damaged porcelain
To all the world
Who wants to see.

2 comments

  1. Ana

    ¡Hola Deirdre! Muy bonito este post.
    Eres muy valiente expresando tus sentimientos y dejando que veamos lo que hay debajo de la “porcelana”.
    En momentos como esta semana, en los que siento que se me va la vida y me encuentro tan mal físicamente, leer tus posts me reconforta…muchas gracias!!!
    No creo que estés “rota”…más bien el “pegamento” que has usado para recomponerte, te ha hecho más fuerte.
    Sigue así…eres un ejemplo a seguir, y un gran apoyo (al menos para mí).
    Besos. Ana.

    Like

  2. muireann@padraighyland.com

    wow. this has taken my breath away. i hope you are enduring your fragility and are ok. sending you warmest hugs xx

    Like

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