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.