She’d crumbled in my hands
as I picked lace from her bodice.
First the bust,
then the neck,
arms and legs already in chunks.

Had she been French?
Dutch?
Something European.
Too many Dutch girls already line the walls.

Maybe she could be fixed?
A cruel notion,
I know.
But what can I say?
I still play favorites.

But how will I do it?
Is it even worth my time?
Yes,
I think it is.
I wrecked her,
so I should be the one to fix her.

I’ll first rid myself of her old sunhat
and woolen dress.
Over-shirt with lacy threads,
unadorned felt slippers.

Next,
I heat the glue and burn my fingers.
Several times,
notice little dried flowers
on my palms.

Alas,
half her pieces don’t fit together.
A metal armature...