The antique children
Sean Lause


​​The antique children
are lined like convenient deaths
on a Victorian love seat
in my grandmother’s store in the country.
Their eyes are jewels that glitter in the moon,
apricot cheeks, but foreheads cracked with time,
their smiles ditched long ago, lips parted,
mouthing a silence—plump, prettied, and alone.
I believe they are gifted, clued to the dark,
hands clutching an emptiness like gold.
Have they ever touched daylight?
Is there some memory they cannot say?
Late at night I hear them
walking from aisle to aisle,
awkward, desperate as asylum echoes,
searching for any door.
I cover my ears and try not to scream
at their tiny fingers clawing at the lock,
while their rocking horse, strung from the ceiling,
rides away, rides away, rides away…