Cassandra

Cassandra is a paper doll

not unlike plaster hams glazed with pomegranate

juice & gingham-cloth jars, resin vegetables

styled neatly, awaiting nibbles and the awakening of

holy terror, the Deep-belly, the Being heard

and seen, and of hearing the Angels’ chorus, the Hallelujah

and the breath before Amen

Not three eyes have seen Cassandra, my Cassandra,

my holy fountain, my Burning

bush. Idolatry, yet we are dolls—I too

cherish your reliquary, a lock of hair, your paper apron

folded in my locket. Hands pocketed but aching 

to fold in prayer, or to just lie down—our paper clip bed frame

our cotton ball pillows,

our comforter, a vintage handkerchief, embroidered:

I want to be—an ink stain!

I want to be heard?

I want to belong?

I want to beautify my home with 1:12 scale porcelain, 

a dried floral wreath, pink bow, bunny slippers, 

the quiet, the sumptuous silence

Emily Bulicz-Arnelien