It sounded like something dropped,
a bag perhaps or wet towels.
Not a person, twitching and twelve
years old in a doorway.
Her mother, as a child, thought
people turned into paper dolls
when you couldn’t see them.
When there is quiet, you can still hear
the low gug gug of seizure,
the light thump of inconsistent elbows.
Her mother never let her have Barbies,
never bought the high heels or
skimpy Skippy swimwear.
The bedroom floor, but thank god
not down the staircase.
A full minute convulsing.
Twelve, not knowing.
One Easter, her and her mother
drew the figures, the shirts and slacks
with tabs, the shoes with part
in front and part in back.
You sit with them when they’re still,
keep the eyes open,
ask questions that go without
answers until the squad arrives.
They spent all day,
filling in the colors,
cutting out the forms.
Stories played out in
cardboard props.
There is no place to sit
but beside the head of your
child, holding the solid palm,
her smile pointed at your voice.
Calling her mother from the
hospital, she confesses –
she is thin as flash paper.
The world you have built,
everything,
could ignite at any moment.
