A Safe Place To Land
My mother had a rag doll with albino skin
springy curls, red cheeks.
The floppy thing was a keepsake
from a simple upbringing,
rundown cottage, prickly turf
and dreams.
As a child I slept in rag curls every night
cheeks flushed from summer heat or an icy flow.
I was not a doppelganger of the doll.
My skin was olive-bronze.
I had my own dreams.
Sometimes my mop would freakout,
when in a fun mood mother
used a sugary water spray
to stiffen every strand into tight finger-waves.
She said I looked like Jean Harlow.
Mornings were a ribald fashion parade.
My favourite aunt who lived next door
had countless slinky silks,
depending on the hair mode
I swanned around sultry and mysterious,
puffing on an empty cigarette holder.
If ringlets were in favor
I transformed into a precarious tap dancer
like Shirley Temple, dimples and bobby socks.
Nothing was quite real.
Nurture came without effort.Now blow-drying sears the past,
dimples are dimmed in blush and miracle creams,
beauty spots are moles not to be highlighted
for the film star effect.
The make-believe?
A silent charade hidden in a secret refuge
to soften the falls.
