Putting down my Porcelain Doll

She's awake.
I bring her downstairs.
I lead her there by her cold, pale hand.
Trembling and fragile like a porcelain doll, she's too tall, too active, too old to be porcelain.
We need somewhere to sit.
I don't know what's wrong, but I think she warned me about this before we left.
We knock into chairs and tables in the foreign place.
Finally we rest on a block of brick.
She trembles.
What do I do?
She trembles.
I stay.
She trembles.
She can't help it. She's helpless; sickly, sick.


I'm awake.
I need some water.
Laughingly, they greet me, stumbling and sloppy, and still passing two bottles.
I laugh along until she doubles over, head out the window;
Porcelain arms gripping the window.
Her dinner is out the window.
She sits in front of a trash can.
I sit beside.
What do I do?
Chicken and pasta fill the can.
I sit beside.
What do I do?
Her new friend holds her hair back.
What do I do?

I leave.