in the French museum—is ski-masked—her blacks crackle and drag—
holds a thick wooden stick, alone in her case.
Only her eyes show, and that seam of red, her drawn mouth.
She is possibly already gone—
while in the Alternative London Room, the punk dolls
are so lucky—they have sisters, they wear matching Mohawks,
the same fake chains looped around their leather pants and
I hear The Clash who are not playing anywhere here—
London calling to the underworld
Come out of the cupboard you boys and girls—
No flash cameras allowed in this museum—the dolls might blink?
and so I walk on to Bebe en tissu de la Louisiane,
to look for my souvenir baby, my one remembered, my one held too close.
Louisiana, I think, yes, home, write that down.
Where is Baby Never Born? Where is Baby Shaken
Too Hard Inside My Body? Where is Baby
Third Baby Not Happening Baby? Where is baby miscarried
baby over stillborn baby? Where is the baby not lost—
as if we left her out in the yard overnight,
as if she sunk alone into gravel and mud?