The Ceramic Head

My niece, small hands, a sudden, angry fling,

the plastic doll a broken, useless thing.

And I remembered then, the bird so cheap,

its painted eyes, a secret I couldn't keep.

Ten years old, I hated how it stared,

that porcelain calm, a judgment I had feared.

I snatched it up, a fury in my head,

and smashed it on the wall until it bled

white chips and dust. The sharp crack filled the room.

The bird's ceramic head, it met its doom

under the dresser, silent, out of sight.

The sudden quiet, heavy in the light.

I wished it whole again, with all my might.