Stuffed Toddler

In the catacombs in Palermo

there is a stuffed toddler, standing up.

You see her as you round a corner,

at the far end of new corridor,

facing you from the next turn.

Momentarily she seems to glow with life.

To be about to leap out from the wall

and run towards you. Playfully.

Like a real live infant.

But who would bring a real live infant down here?

Down here to run the gauntlet

of the standing, flaking dead.

Closer in, you see that she really

is very well preserved. In a dress. Ribbons.

As if a bridesmaid. Or on a visit

to a distant relative who must be impressed.

She looks, you think, like an ideal child.

A made to order child.

A child designed by advertising men.

Almost a mannequin. Blemish free, perfectly

symmetrical, ringlets.

You guess,

and the guide affirms,

that it is the mother, the father, and so on,

who line the walls fanning out

either side of her. Dead, you reckon,

but still grieving.

Obviously, they were a rich family,

powerful, rapacious, cruel.

Tender beyond reason to their little girl.

Showering her with gifts.

Protecting her from all harm.

Daring anyone to so much as look

at her with bad intent.

They must have visited her very often.

Perhaps even every day.

One of them, at least.