In the antique store window, a woman stands,
her plastic arms bent to hold a small face-less child,
its stiff body wrapped in blanket. She is looking at you,
her eyes painted on so she can only see forward.

When you enter the store a bell rings, a reminder
to the woman behind the counter. Inside this small room
she is surrounded by things that someone has forgotten,
chipped cups, dusted books, old records.

If you played one it would stop,
hold on to that wavering note till you pulled
the needle away. The refrigerator no longer hums,
and the toaster burns all the toast black—
it no longer remembers to let things go.

You move towards the backroom where the house stands
abandoned. The house that once split open, down
the middle so you could move the dolls from the living
room to the bedroom without stairs or doors.

A long time ago this house was filled with sound
but now nothing moves. You look in the window,
see an outline of a woman who has laid in bed for years.
After all this time, you still long to hold her,
fit her in your palm, and move your lips
to hear her voice.