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      April 11, 2024The Wedding DollNancy Beagle

      She boxed me—saving me, she said, for the wedding.
      She shall be my centerpiece, stand next to the cake.
      That was when she was twelve.
      I was a birthday gift to a girl who loved dolls. A girl who had
      dreams, pictured herself, apron-clad, in a sunny kitchen
      fixing pot roast for a husband, four children.
      It is now 65 years later, and I’m stuck up in the attic,
      like a child’s cradle outgrown or a rocking horse
      no longer needed. And I am still in the turquoise box
      with magenta lettering proclaiming Madame Alexander.
      We, the most cherished dolls of the era. This was
      before Barbie, Cabbage Patch kids, and American Girl.
      My box itself has begun to collapse, its corners broken,
      its top dented from move after move. The wedding dress
      I wear now is tainted—tea brown with age. The lace
      delicate, ready to dissolve at the touch. My face, too, is
      cracked, but my blue eyes are still open. She takes me
      out now and then and witnesses time, acknowledges
      that I never got that center spotlight—nor did she.
      How do I feel having been boxed for decades? How does
      she feel never having had a man to hold at night,
      children to embrace? She, too, has been in a box. Hers
      constructed of societal expectations. No less imprisoned
      than I. Do I pity her? Not really. She had choices whereas
      I had none. She could have, at any time, lifted her lid,
      flown over the edge.

      from Prompt Poem of the Month

      Note from the series editor, Katie Dozier

      Prompt: Write a poem from the perspective of one of your childhood toys.

      “The twirling between the doll and the speaker in Nancy’s poem invites us to get lost in the ruffles of regret. At once exploring our need to cherish and to be cherished, as well as to love and to be loved, the honesty in this poem unboxes a trove of emotion.”