I can’t lock the front door
to my parents’ house.
I slam it closed,
but it swings open,
again and again.

I’m sucked inside,
across the immaculately vacuumed,
heavy Oriental rugs,
up the stairwell wallpapered like
a medieval castle of stone blocks, and
into my bedroom where I find waiting
my dolls of many nations, my Ladybug hairdryer
and sunny yellow trellised wallpaper
lush with pink roses.

My dolls stand on wooden bookshelves
stained walnut by my mother
before she screwed their standards into the wall.

Miss Italy and Miss Germany
seem to chat together,
perhaps about their common costume
of white blouse under jumper and apron.
I arrange all my dolls in alphabetical order and
conversational groupings.
At least this part of my life I can control.