by Lorna Shaughnessy
The handful of dolls you gave me
come to the day-ward in my pocket.
Each face embroidered with her own humour,
each huipil, woven in Chiapas, tells a story,
each woman bald beneath her bright headscarf,
the tell-tale sign that marks us all.
The poisoned chalice is hooked up
by the gloved hands of administering angels.
Even clad in latex their touch transcends
the banalities that spew from daytime radio;
some one thing