My mother, a Russian Doll
Hand-carved by the Republic’s people
Only to have her aspen shells smashed & splintered by drunken fists.
To protect her remaining layers
She sits on the top shelf
I, a porcelain Nutcracker clumsily repaired with tacky glue
Too contorted to serve its intended purpose
But not enough to retire from performing.
Every time the pieces fit differently
And yet still a frivolous interpretation
Of an already neglected appliance