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