You put on the child hood
in the museum of the cut-out paper dolls.

It fits snugly, a little tightly.

With the child hood on,
you can’t hear much. Just some sirens
in the direction of the capital.

All the cut-out paper dolls lean forward
in their vitrines of glass and plastic.

It was sunny when you left the plaza
and the roads were nice.
You waved at the little farms you passed.

Somebody is trying to say something.

A signature. A bowling score.
What you jotted down carelessly, once.

The soldiers make no sound at all.

At the other palace
your laundry is already done,
pressed and folded
in hampers of polished teak.

At the other palace,
your bedroom overlooks
a small lake,
replete with swans.

You look for your name
along the long wall.
You try repeating
other people’s names.

You wish you were
at the other palace.
Of course, you also
wish you were
younger, stronger, thinner.

At the other palace,
there are models of couples
dancing, singing
in wax, and better parking.

You wait in the line
by the rose windows.
Planes keep landing,
and taking off.

Your hair looks different
today, someone says.

You wave at all the people
lost in the forest.
The little lights
from the guard towers
are too numerous to count.