Taking the Dolls Home

Earth is the basin that holds you. A depression
where ashes cling trough to rim, is the body
contoured to its maker.

I will keep the dust from cataracting
the nesting dolls still sloped along your windowsill—
always with their eyes to the land.

Their family is intact, but my thumb finds their seams,
nudges ribs open like hinges. Each figure
is swallowed by its other selves till only one remains.

Obituaries & classifieds glove their enamel
on their journey to a new light,
facing the fields, outside my kitchen window.

I unroll the newspapers.
Smaller dolls shake inside the largest. She is the mother.
Just listen to the rattle—the congestion in her chest.

Lorrie Ness is a poet writing in a rural corner of Virginia. When she’s not writing, she can be found stomping through the woods, watching birds and playing in the dirt. Her work can be found in numerous journals, including Palette Poetry and Sky Island Journal. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021 and her chapbook Anatomy of a Wound was published by Flowstone Press in July of 2021.

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1 Response to Taking the Dolls Home

  1. Marc Isaac Potter says:


    2010 El Camino Real #541 ■ Santa Clara 95050 ■ 408..209..3092 ■ mipc441@gmail.com

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