Like this:

hurricane Irene
soaks the ground
seeps into her basement

stranding 300 sets of veiled eyes
peering from doll’s faces glazed
with years of dust and black mold

toddler-lined shelves, babies encased in stacked in boxes
silent faux-infants with label tags affixed to arms or ankles

Aunt Clara, too unsteady to navigate the stairs, sits at the top
descends one riser at a time
until she can see the flooded basement

all her babies — damaged
she looks away
hides her tears

thirty-three years ago
policeman and pastor knocked on her door
both avoided eye contact

she sat on the landing tread then, too
awkward silence sucked the air from the room

she slumped on the steps
covered her ears to block their words

her heart broke loose from its moorings
and her mind swept away

he was a good son

no reason, a random shot
struck during his morning run

she recoiled
her only child — gone!

after–
packaged dolls begin arriving
daily, weekly, monthly
she greets each like a newborn

adopts garage sale dollies
dresses them
in hats and blue jeans
handmade dresses and bonnets
arranges them in the basement

now
all the replacement babies
ruined

they grin at her
with smiles molded into plastic faces

they stare at her like siblings of Chuckie
deformed, bleary-eyed, spotted and dirty

she never looks at them again
take them away
take them all away

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