Hildred Crill
Portland , Maine
Brides in white sheaths flock
the windows on Congress St .
See-through scarves loop
their long necks. They have
no heads. I gave my own
name to my first doll because
I didn't want it. I grew tired
of wrestling her hard plastic.
The last doll? Lost in squares.
Mary of blue gingham skin
should have stayed a tablecloth,
a dress empty without the girl.
If I'd known not to wear shadow
gray, high neck, long sleeve,
someone would have seen me
at the end of church benches
put lilies, stems into my hands.
As soon as she saw skin loosen,
the thread break once, the edges
tucked in, she opened the doll
to see what filled her. Sawdust
burst out everywhere—insides
that couldn't go back.