The Burning Doll

THE BURNING DOLL

by

Thomas F. Williams

I wonder if the dolly asked,
That Christmas Eve of Nineteen Twenty-four,
“May I go out and play a while,
And roll up snowballs there beyond the door?”

I wonder—as the shadows fell,
And lazy amber tongues lit up the room,
Did Dolly face the fire with fear,
Foreknowing that the furnace was her doom?

My father tossed the doll to flames.
My mother, seated, grimaced not at all.
My sister spoke not once a word,
So like the dullard shadows on the wall.

Then, as her hair was burned away,
Did Dolly even once, though senseless, shriek?
And when her face, as liquid, ran,
Were any sad that Dolly couldn’t speak?

I’d ask my mother, why the pyre,
And then my father, why did you partake?
My sister, why were you so still,
And why did I not, just a little, quake?

So late to probe, too late to know!
Why must the seeker seek in dark of night?
Because when comes another day,
Not even then will darkness turn to light.

Now, after years, I wonder still.
I’ll wonder, I suppose, a few years more:
Why did the dolly die that night,
That Christmas Eve of Nineteen Twenty-four?