This Eternal Youth from pages
looks out, eyes round, a porcelain doll,
held from me in glossy cages.
My hand can’t reach him through the wall,
so I stroke the surface, wanting
it to be his cheek, his haunting,
limpid face that nuzzles flush
against my fingers, pliant, plush.
I desire to own perfection,
encase it safely in my womb,
protect it from the cruel tomb
of the Truth: the same protection
that no one offered me when I
was young and wondered how and why.
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