China Dolls

Daughters tend to be like pretty possessions.

The china dolls line the solid surfaces of 
your grandmother’s guest bedroom, painted pink,
lined with doe eyes and Goldilock curls and a
scent only familiar in church bathrooms,
or your grandmother’s hugs.

Your grandfather insists on keeping this door shut,
but you sneak in anyway. Unafraid of their wide eyes
and still faces, brushing fingers along the well-kept
shelves, eyeing the still glossy Mary Janes with virgin
white stockings.

These dolls, these girls are untouched,
too fragile for human hands to grasp,

breakable and irreplaceable. You once watched your
grandfather, strong hands, worn from age, grasp a doll.
He was too clumsy, too quick, too rough.She smashed
into pieces, glass arms and legs shattering, sliding
across the wood floor. Her face, forever young, swept
up by your grandmother’s broom and forever forgotten.

You wonder. If I were to have a daughter…
Doe eyes, Goldilock curls?
Would she too be so easily breakable?
So easily destroyed and disregarded by men.
But I picture my daughter, clawing her way out of me,
red-faced, kicking, screaming.

I’d pray she holds onto her anger, that her face keep its scowl, that her teeth become sharp,
her voice remain piercing.
I’d pray that she not let the men who hurt her forget her.
I’d pray that one day, those men be walking through a room and a glass shard slice their feet.

I pray she never be forced to endure this world.
I pray she never be born.

Daughters tend to be like pretty possessions.

The china dolls line the solid surfaces of 
your grandmother’s guest bedroom, painted pink,
lined with doe eyes and Goldilock curls and a
scent only familiar in church bathrooms,
or your grandmother’s hugs.

Your grandfather insists on keeping this door shut,
but you sneak in anyway. Unafraid of their wide eyes
and still faces, brushing fingers along the well-kept
shelves, eyeing the still glossy Mary Janes with virgin
white stockings.

These dolls, these girls are untouched,
too fragile for human hands to grasp,

breakable and irreplaceable. You once watched your
grandfather, strong hands, worn from age, grasp a doll.
He was too clumsy, too quick, too rough.She smashed
into pieces, glass arms and legs shattering, sliding
across the wood floor. Her face, forever young, swept
up by your grandmother’s broom and forever forgotten.

You wonder. If I were to have a daughter…
Doe eyes, Goldilock curls?
Would she too be so easily breakable?
So easily destroyed and disregarded by men.
But I picture my daughter, clawing her way out of me,
red-faced, kicking, screaming.

I’d pray she holds onto her anger, that her face keep its scowl, that her teeth become sharp,
her voice remain piercing.
I’d pray that she not let the men who hurt her forget her.
I’d pray that one day, those men be walking through a room and a glass shard slice their feet.

I pray she never be forced to endure this world.
I pray she never be born.