Given to me by my sister as a gift，
the tiny Indian doll stands with no arms.
Given to me so I can raise my hands
and sTOP the world from coming closer.
Something has been taken from here
a day when reaching out was death.
Something lost with my own hands.
The doll stands three inches tall，
its brown head wrapped in a red scarf.
No arms， as if I could look at a body
and not welcome it back.
As if I knew what happened
to my grip1 on those things.
The clay doll stands on my bookshe1f.
It stares out the window.
It does not have any arms.
I don't know why it was carved that way，
don't know what it means，
why the invisible2 palms hold everything.
When I touch it with a fingertip，
it leans against a book.
It does not fall.
When I set it back on its bare feet，
I carefully use both hands.
