They burn her bedding the day she dies, garments,
a bonfire while the household cries. Fabric
cloth, linen, scarletina touched, servants
collect — await a doll that’s clutched, static
— protected, grandmother’s arms, bisque infant
fevers cannot harm, Agatha, grey glass eyes
undressed, a grim surprise, insufficient
porcelain, modest dressing gown disguised
the body, cloth, no one can save, like child
beloved carried to a grave. They cut
away ceramic head, forearms. Burn defiled
materials diseased, disarmed. They put
what’s salvageable in a sterling box,
a bisque dismemberment to be unlocked.
