Near the door
is the little ballerina,
the top of her tutu ripped,
standing in the middle of window glass,
her thumb in her mouth,
her hand bleeding a little.
Malia lifts her up,
looks around,
then reaches for my hand
and pulls Blankie
from my still-clenched fist.
She shakes it out
and wraps the ballerina
in a messy cocoon.