1. creation

you are a meat man.
you sculpt her face with your clumsy hands.
she has your eyes: beady and bright,
your nose, small and flat
against a wide blue face, and
softly glazed lips.
your careful brush trails cool kisses:
drawing tradition, obligation, obedience,
across fiery skin,
your wife loves flowers
so you hollow out porcelain girl’s head and
leave her with a shattered mind,
a place for flowers to wilt.

she is brought to life by the fire
licking at her feet
as she crouched on the kiln shelf,
melted, then reformed.
born again
with ancestral favor
seared into bone-white skin.
caress her sullen cheek,
comfort her.
her mouth opens to scream
but she does not have lungs.

porcelain girl takes her first steps
like a wave washing ashore,
crashing against your stern countenance.
she scrapes across marble floors,
thunders down stairs that buckle beneath her presence.
her laughter chokes in her throat,
reverberates through her empty skull,
and multiplies tenfold.
excitement seizes her in your arms,
locked in a whirlwind dance of
delirious laughter and strangled tears.
the rugged arms of your father are all you know,
righteous fury and scouring tenderness.
porcelain girl knows the worn palm of your hand,
the curl of your frustrated fist.

still, you remember soft
laughter tumbling from your lips and
crisp autumn air hanging over
your quiet hometown,
before everyone fled for desolate cities,
you remember the family you left behind
when you traveled to this strange land
with not a word in your mouth
but plenty of hope.
and wish that happiness may always have a place in
the hollow of her chest,
hope to give her something you never had.
you are so proud of her,
little china girl.

you hold her in your arms the way that
you would hold a baby:
but in the back of your mind,
you can’t help but wonder
what sound she would make
if Porcelain Girl fell
against harsh ground.