Dead Mother Dead mother is a doll, with a doll’s face, left neatly unwrapped, in the creamy quilted case. Someone has positioned a hair of silver chain, and clasped it, across her fist, but she can’t really grasp it. The calligrapher has stitched Going Home, in white silk, and I Love You Grandma welts from little lime cushions, like milk. Her golden wig is brushed, nesting the head, beige jacket and blouse to match it, buttoned at neck. Someone has powdered the thin face and patched it, with puttied skin, a not-quite-in-synch puzzle-of-pink. I look away. Her thin rose lips…