Meryl Stratford
To the Inhabitants of My Childhood Dollhouse

You appeared
one Christmas morning
in your two-story tin house,
all your plastic furniture
in place.
I was the giant face
the giant hand
reaching in,
moving you about.
You sat
on your tiny chairs,
eating your silent supper.
You lay
flat on your backs,
staring up at the ceiling.
I wish I’d given you
gourmet meals,
numinous dreams.
Every day
should have been Christmas.
I wish I’d given you
secret identities,
kinky sex,
magical powers
like time-travel
and ESP,
or let you fly
up to the rooftop,
or sent you off
on impossible missions
so you could die
and return from the grave.
Wherever you are,
I send you this wish—
a child who will give you
interesting lives.