I MUST HAVE LEARNED THIS SOMEWHERE
I loved an old doll made of bleached
wooden beads strung into a stick figure.
When the string was pulled, the tautened limbs
reached their full extent, and a human figure,
stiff with rigor mortis, rose up.
When the string was let go, the doll collapsed
into a heap more lifelike, though it missed
its spinal chord of string. I spent hours trying
to prop it up to look more human without
pulling the string, but it sat in my hands,
bent, uncontrolled in a muscular fit
or a spasm of fear. And so for myself,
collapsed in a tangled necklace,
anger painting my stiff wooden face.
Yet now my life can hold me in its hands
as long ago I coaxed the doll in my palms
to try to sit lifelike there. My mother's hands
must long ago have offered the same balm
though I took her for an operator
holding my string. How else could I store
such an idea of comfort as I
gave the doll, so material was its cry?
I loved an old doll made of bleached
wooden beads strung into a stick figure.
When the string was pulled, the tautened limbs
reached their full extent, and a human figure,
stiff with rigor mortis, rose up.
When the string was let go, the doll collapsed
into a heap more lifelike, though it missed
its spinal chord of string. I spent hours trying
to prop it up to look more human without
pulling the string, but it sat in my hands,
bent, uncontrolled in a muscular fit
or a spasm of fear. And so for myself,
collapsed in a tangled necklace,
anger painting my stiff wooden face.
Yet now my life can hold me in its hands
as long ago I coaxed the doll in my palms
to try to sit lifelike there. My mother's hands
must long ago have offered the same balm
though I took her for an operator
holding my string. How else could I store
such an idea of comfort as I
gave the doll, so material was its cry?