Published in Issue 8 of Levitate Literary Magazine
I began sewing ten months after the first building
Fell, pricked myself bloody making scarlet skirts and sleeves
I wondered how many dolls it would take to stop
Looking at the birdless sky
How many times I would have to explain myself to the dead
Children in my dreams
My favorite doll has dark hair and no eyes
She stands taller than the rest
Red beads around her throat
Red drips down her dress
I play at an art that others fight for
Live a life of luxury and cry over it still
My hands will never wrap the thread right
My dolls will always stand hunched over
Their faces criss-crossed with grief
I keep that doll under my pillow and she whispers to me at night
Tells me the Great Firebird is coming to save the country that is
Not my country
I take her truth and chew it over, feel it gather
Under the tongue
Spit it onto the carpet and take the doll in my hands
Rip at her limbs and hair
Remember again where the firebird comes from
It has been one year and the sky is still on fire
The fallen buildings clog the streets and I fumble
The needle, labor over my missteps for hours
Try to fill my head with something other than guilt and fabric
The bird that used to be mine is sweeping whole cities into flames
It does not matter how many times I check the door, the dolls will not
Forget my face
A locked house will still burn
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