Kate Johnson

Some days I feel as small

As the Polly Pockets we used to play with,

But only on special occasions when it

Rained and was too wet to run around

The farm, you would bring that blue box

And I would dive in, picking only the prettiest

Dolls, with painted smiles and shiny skin

And discarding those scarred by time and abuse.

I’ve never told you I am sorry of stealing,

Sneaking a few accessories into my pocket

Each visit, but you never noticed how the stack

Of plastic shrunk, swallowed by the space.

I should apologize for thinking you were crazy

When you cooked in that giant fur coat,

Substituting it for sunscreen and hanging it

With your summer clothes when winter came.

A signature red lip stained your teeth until

It looked like your mouth bled when you smiled.

I never saw your own scars for time had stolen

Your sons and your sanity. I am sorry I cried

When you forgot my birthday card for the third

Year in a row, and I cry, realizing that you

Are the broken dolls that I discarded long ago.