Stuffed Toddler

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 on 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.