don’t speak in my name!

murdered in incubators,

they won’t see this Spring

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Mama…

One staring eye,
the other blinks
like a beetle
crossing a marble.
Porcelain face,
flushed with rouge
and crimson
painted lips.

Hole in the wall
in the boarded up attic
of a Victorian townhouse.
Long forgotten,
until the mortar
crumbled around
the remains
of her dolls.

Dresses of lace
embroidered by spiders
with gossamer threads
and sprinkled with dust,
decay and c...

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