Danielle Aquiline
Porcelain
There are buses that take you to airport
terminals and there are shuttles. I was
on the ridged stair of a bus when my
father handed me a ceramic doll. She
was life-sized, in a wicker basket, body
all cotton except for hands, feet and head.
For a long time after that I would carry
that baby around, mop house with her
in arm, rock back and forth as if to sleep
her. With no blinking eye or rising chest
she was surely no squirmy thing, but I
thought if some sad stranger peeped
into the window I would be made mother.
I cannot, even still, tell you what it was
that stitched that lifeless sack to my chest.
Maybe the want to nest a home more neatly
than mine was nested, to feel cold porcelain
lips near my breast.
Danielle Aquiline graduated from the MFA program in Poetry at Columbia College Chicago where she now teaches writing full-time. She is also the editorial assistant for College Composition and Communication. Her poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Black Clock, Court Green, Bellingham Review, Gulf Stream and Gay & Lesbian Review. She lives in Andersonville with her partner, Sona, two cats, two dwarf hamsters and two dwarf bunnies. Her favorite flower is the hydrangea.