I thought she had nothing left 
to give—all the family heirlooms 
distributed—then she brought out 
an old, folded pillowcase with 
a bump inside—a baby doll, 
brought from the old country 
by her father’s mother or sister.
Eight inches tall, she’s dressed 
in a white shift with lace trim, 
a white jacket of boiled wool. 
Her bald bisque head has the air 
of an oracle—stern, pursed lips 
shut tight. When I pick her up, 
her sleep eyes open to deep blue.
Cloth arms spread wide to broken 
hands. She’s ready to be loved 
after nearly a century in an antique 
trunk—sheltered from touch 
while the Baba Yaga’s riders
gallop on their rounds. What 
the child-eater says is true—
Too much knowledge makes 
you old. It happened to my mother, 
who, at 93, passed on this relic 
before the eyes in her skull 
burned away. She even said, 
more than once, I love you dearly—
then cried. Small gestures 
can ease a lifetime of hurt. 
I never guessed 
that my mother’s blessing 
would go with me.
                        

It starts with a long winter
and a thermostat that’s never 
set high enough. We aren’t 
our parents yet, who cranked 
the heat up to 80—we wear 
layers of wool indoors instead. 
Crossword puzzles are getting 
harder—too many clues about 
popular culture. An outing 
to the store or the doctor takes 
all the energy we can muster,
and a day to recover. Soon, 
we’ll be the couple who drives 
to the park and sits in the car, 
content to rest on heated seats 
and watch the light in the trees. 
To the world, we’re the ones 
young people open doors for. 
To ourselves, we’re the same 
as we ever were—still in love, 
still laughing.
                        

This street is old enough
to remember the days
before engines—days
of anticipation and dust
when every horse
turning the corner 
was occasion for neighbors
to wave from their porches.
Now layers of asphalt
muffle their voices
and the stone hitching posts,
legacy of a meticulous
mason, merely interrupt
the sidewalk—their rings 
rusting, a nod and bow 
to a notion of time 
now indefensible.
The cars never stop
on their way to town,
never notice how narrow
the distance between
sheet metal and
the snort and neigh
and piss of horse—