I found this doll in a yard sale, and bought it for fifty cents.
If you squeeze her, air comes out of a tiny hole at the top of her head and she squeaks.
She’s very old and very beautiful, and it’s something about the fairytaleness of her existence that I love.
Or perhaps it’s the rabbit, or her patent leather shoes, or her serrated collar.
Her eyes are excited about life, and also innocently blank.
She makes me think about Alice in Wonderland, my namesake, and therefore of rocking-horse flies and wormholes to the Underland.
I see blue streaks on her dress and running down her back, and I think part of her used to be blue.
She stands on my desk, leaning against the wall, heels on a tray full of seashells, watching me as I work.
She is lost. She is found.