Invisible

I iron the dress
of the old doll.
The blue dress
of the blue-eyed doll.
The well-made dress
of the antique doll,
with blush fired
perfectly into porcelain cheeks,
and porcelain little teeth,
and a dimple
in the porcelain mound of fat
on her chin.

Her body is of leather,
torn, repaired with tough fabric of sorts.
There is much stitching all over.
My mother, grandmother and great-grandmother
– all touched the doll.
All made well-made things
with deft fingers.
My grandmother sewed the dress,
the tiny button-holes,
which have had tiny buttons
pushed through them
for three generations now.

I think the doll sees
the invisible linking
of deft fingers,
transparent intentions
running like time, like water,
through the world.

Her eyes can close,
but the lids
are a little chipped,
so she probably peeps
even when you lay her down
to sleep.

– Silke Heiss

Winter poem

The ceiling fan – an unmoving X.
Obedient curtain folds hang down.
The daughter’s in the Blue Room.

– Silke Heiss

The clan you called

They are, to us in Poortjies, high specks.

“Come, come to us,” you say,
and they do, they come:
planing down, closer, towards us, open

raspberry-coloured underarms,
black extremities of wing,
they land and compose
themselves on the water,
each one facing the sun.

The whole clan of them face
the sun, and the sun
faces them: sets into
their heads bowed
upon the last light
on the water.

Swanlike, with grey youngsters, they swim-tread,
long-necked, white, but pink in parts, dipping their faces down,
occasionally below the high tide water, which is deeply, steely blue.

The flamingoes drift away from our talk. The clan you called,
their bright rose underarms, their hairpin necks and throats will sleep
soon, we suppose, on the lagoon, under the bright, full moon.

– Silke Heiss