Rag Doll Requiem
by Mag McAvaddy
As a child of eight, when a daughter behaved
(Or at least did the best that she can),
My Mama I told, though I was too old,
How I wanted a Raggedy Ann.
But Daddy was there, and Mama said no,
She never would buy me that doll.
So steep was Dad’s frown I was forced to declare
That I wanted no Annie at all.
But Santa is real! And Christmas it came,
And Annie was under the tree!
Addressed to my sister, but she didn’t want her;
She traded her Annie to me.
I loved little Ann, with her skullish black eyes;
She was with me at chores and at play.
And Daddy said nothing, and looked very mild,
So, I thought my dear Annie could stay.
And Annie and I lay together at night,
And our hopes and our secrets we shared,
And we were best friends, she and I, all alone,
In a sad land where few others cared.
I left her at home once, while I was away;
In the evening, I found she was gone,
And though frantic I searched she just couldn’t be found,
So, I thought little Ann had moved on.
But on the third day, as Christ rose from the tomb,
An oracle entered my head;
I went to the trash can and opened the lid:
Inside little Annie was dead.
Her sockets were dark, and her head was torn off,
No needle could fix what was done;
Her little cloth torso was gashed with a knife;
From her wounds all the cotton had run.
I covered her up with a newspaper shroud
And ran off to my bedroom to cry.
And still, to the present, I wish I could know:
Who murdered my dolly? And why?
(Or at least did the best that she can),
My Mama I told, though I was too old,
How I wanted a Raggedy Ann.
But Daddy was there, and Mama said no,
She never would buy me that doll.
So steep was Dad’s frown I was forced to declare
That I wanted no Annie at all.
But Santa is real! And Christmas it came,
And Annie was under the tree!
Addressed to my sister, but she didn’t want her;
She traded her Annie to me.
I loved little Ann, with her skullish black eyes;
She was with me at chores and at play.
And Daddy said nothing, and looked very mild,
So, I thought my dear Annie could stay.
And Annie and I lay together at night,
And our hopes and our secrets we shared,
And we were best friends, she and I, all alone,
In a sad land where few others cared.
I left her at home once, while I was away;
In the evening, I found she was gone,
And though frantic I searched she just couldn’t be found,
So, I thought little Ann had moved on.
But on the third day, as Christ rose from the tomb,
An oracle entered my head;
I went to the trash can and opened the lid:
Inside little Annie was dead.
Her sockets were dark, and her head was torn off,
No needle could fix what was done;
Her little cloth torso was gashed with a knife;
From her wounds all the cotton had run.
I covered her up with a newspaper shroud
And ran off to my bedroom to cry.
And still, to the present, I wish I could know:
Who murdered my dolly? And why?
Mag McAvaddy lives in Northeast Ohio. She is a former French instructor and translator, currently employed as a computer programmer. Her poems are rich in historical allusions and explore the themes of sex and gender (Mag is transgender), loss, and the passage of time. In addition to reading and writing poetry, her pleasures are opera, classical music, and history. She is learning how to read tarot.