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
lacking arms,
neck,
or stomach.

Only more dust is made.
I shove the head back onto the post
and try not to split it through.
I mustn’t touch it too much
as I puzzle over the missing mass.

I could wrap wefts of fabric,
but surely
they wouldn’t hold.
Paper mache might do the trick,
but what a mess!
Would it even take to the enamel?
I could try.

Three bowls.
Sticky glue paste.
Water.
Newspaper,
cut into strips.
I begin to wrap,
then patch the holes.
Jagged joints,
raw and frosted with glue.

Congealed slightly yellow.
I cover those,
neatly.
White clay,
the air-dry kind.
I hide all the bones.
and leave shallow fingerprints
behind.

Start and finish,
I crack the acrylics.
A coating—
or several coatings,
settle in on her face.

Little strokes—
my hand shakes slightly.
I give her rose dust cheeks
and too-thick brows.

I seal it matte,
I seal it smooth.
I pluck the wig from the box
and place it on her head.

A Kabuki wig,
even though it falls apart,
even though it suggests a man.
I don’t really care
so long as she is whole.

© Katherine Steffeter