Her laugh skirts round my question,
What should we do with Mom’s collection?
Oh, she says, reaching to shut the blue eyes
of Princess Diana, you can have them.
I don’t have the space.
She’s embarrassed. But I’m considering.
The dolls, arranged by fairy tale
and dusted faithfully
on a schedule, stare with plastic hope.
I know keeping won’t fix
all she said and did to make us
beautiful and clean. As we pack them,
at least we make sure
no one goes in face down.
At least we don’t giggle
as we stretch tape across the box
and mark it “Donate.”
About the Author
Patricia Jacaban Miranda’s poems are featured or are forthcoming in apt, Bop Dead City, DASH, The Ghazal Page, Heron Tree, Into the Void, Kitaab, Mount Hope, Rise Up Review, Shot Glass Journal, and others. She lives in Columbus, Ohio with her husband and two children.