Pen Hetherington

She came in a wooden box.

Her hair was curled

around her smooth cheeks,

her celluloid legs were jointed

and she could talk.

At first they dressed her up,

sat her in the best chair,

and sought admiration

for her fragile perfections.

But they soon returned

to the red coated soldiers,

to the striped and knitted golliwogs,

and the stuffed bears of uncertain sexuality.

Now the lid is closed

on her fixed smile,

and bright insects crawl,

like jewels, on her vapid face.