Even with Her Head so Sewn

it was barely her own,
I still loved her.
Her stitched smile
and green button eyes
told stories through the past,
like playing doctor in my
long, white coat and stethoscope
while she lay there.
 
I told her all her bones were broken,
and she had chicken pox
and an ear infection. She also
needed surgery to be re-stuffed.
 
I sang "Hush little baby
don't say a word," as my imagination
painted teardrops on her face.
My mom prepped her needle
in our recliner, and the lamp
cast yellow surgeons
against the ochre wall.
 
I cried more than her,
when I left her at daycare,
or in Florida, after we washed
the sea mist from ourselves,
and she wasn't there.
 
Now she sits on my bed,
stuffed with memories,
her eyes peridot, forever burning
--like Greek fire--
and her pale pink bonnet thinned
from wash cycles and nightmares.