the tailor’s dummy
in my mother’s closet
no hands
no head no name . . .
her shape in my mirror
at the firehouse
a small white sign
safe surrender site
tenderly I swaddle
my orphaned fears
a box of delights
unopened inside me
I search
jungles and oceans
for the key in its lock
the music
breaks open
inside of me
something else
I didn’t know I wanted
hand-in-hand
through goldenrod
and asters
we catch for a moment
time’s powdered wings
Ribbons 8: 3, winter 2012
