Given to me by my sister as a gift，

    the tiny Indian doll stands with no arms.

    Given to me so I can raise my hands

    and stop the world from coming closer.

    Something has been taken from here——

    a day when reaching out was death.

    Something lost with my own hands.

    The doll stands three inches tall，

    its brown head wrapped in a red scarf.

    No arms， as if I could look at a body

    and not welcome it back.

    As if I knew what happened

    to my grip¹ on those things.

    The clay doll stands on my bookshe1f.

    It stares out the window.

    It does not have any arms.

    I don't know why it was carved that way，

    don't know what it means，

    why the invisible² palms hold everything.

    When I touch it with a fingertip，

    it leans against a book.

    It does not fall.

    When I set it back on its bare feet，

    I carefully use both hands.