Spring Cleaning

May 2002

You place this one,
the one with blonde hair and brown eyes,
face sullied with age,
white dress torn at the seam, aside.

You have no need of her now;
it has always been the other.

In a box she goes
this collectible of yours,
this pretty-faced-flaxen-mane porcelain;
this put away possession.

The other was on the shelf,
until you took her down.
Dust her off, try again—
memories sweep away the cobwebs.

You place this one,
the one with the blonde hair and brown eyes,
face sullied with age,
white dress torn at the seam, away.

Out of sight,
out of touch,
tottering on the edge—daring her to fall.