Saturday, December 12, 2015

She's a doll

she misses pine cones    beach wind she misses
soft carpet beneath heels and food she misses grapes, pears 
(an emptiness inside her so vast you can hear the penny
of longing clink inside her)   she knows
without desire she is dead as a doll

but that's what she is--

at the top of a tree in a room
somewhere in the Northern Hemisphere
she bites her lip till she can taste red
in her mouth   you'd never know
by looking at her with those feathered
wings    gowned at the tree's top
that descendos into her needles
and all no one
ever gave her a name she's spent
her life looking out
through the plastic of an attic box
the occasional scamper
of a mouse    the sound of voices
below laughter below   so bright
she wants to become it   wants to move
as it does:    fill a room
with the sound of the beating of a body
that will never be her own  

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