Doll

By Joseph Hesch

Sophie lies there, her face shining
from moisturizer Nurse just applied.
From above, her Sid thinks she looks
like a little doll, eyes closed, like they're
painted on. Sophie’s younger sister, Judy,
born during the Hoover administration,
is led to her bedside and
carries on the one-way conversation,
she always has, mostly about Judy.
Nearby, Nurse thinks Judy's buying in
to a Beatitude, hoping to win valuable prizes
in the hereafter. Sid knows she’s not making up
for lost years when she didn't speak to Sophie.

In twilight haze, Sophie wonders when she can go home.

Nurse half-listens to a story she has heard
so many times before. Who has had it worse,
better, smarter, richer, holier,prettier than anyone else.
"You've got the right idea, honey,"Nurse thinks.
"Go to sleep."
Sophie curls a tiny smile where before was
a tight dash, making all around her happy.
She barely listens to Judy, as if she is one
of these blinking sonorous machines that have
been her cold companions for the past months.
Sophie knows it's only for a little while more.
And now she hears them singing.
In the darkness Sophie sees her Sid's face,
and feels the bright joy of release.
“Hi, doll. Been waiting for you,” he says.

And Sophie, her face radiant, knows she’s home.


Your crabby poet guy Joe tells a semi-true story of very-true love. This was going to be part of a short story. It probably still will. (That's often how it works for me: a poem begets a story.) In this story-poem (or is it a poem-story?), loved ones get together after a long absence from one another. One reunion is not so good, the other is rapturous.

The Eve, the Day, the Joy

By Joseph Hesch

On the Eve and Day of Joy,
the presents were covered
in their smooth and sparkling raiment,
as were the trees and roads
in their fresh-snow greeting card grandeur.
Come the gathering, all those wrappings,
of packages and countryside,
were torn by child and adult,
each in their own way—
hand, scissor, sled, SUV. 
The magic was so quickly broken,
And what was smooth wonder
and sparkling mystery
the night before and at dawn,
had been torn, crumpled, stained
and rendered debris and nuisance
to everyone’s continued joy.
Moms and Dads near-curse the mess
of late-day. Kids ignore or revel in its chaos.
On Boxing Day the broken ugliness
of cold fact will be exposed.
Yet all will be forgotten with the advent
of a new year, a new hope,
a new anticipation
for the sleek magic of the Eve and
the Day we came together
and were joyously unbroken.