Issue 14
Doll Hospital

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Some nights my days
at the doll hospital come back
clear as ever: cocoa

simmering on the stove, the nurses,
all French-speaking brunettes –
nuns, I later learned –

who said, “Everyone is sick
with something.” Wartime,

we’d gone so long without quilts
and pillows, we didn’t mind
the whomp of amputations coming

from the wooden soldier ward
if it meant fuel to keep us warm.

When I woke to find my scorched hair
replaced with faux fur, I fainted.
Soon restored with smelling salts,

I beckoned sense enough
to start working on my cough.