No water. Small village.
All these thirsty blossoms.
Orange.
Yellow.
Weak bushes in hushed soil.
We lulled them by Lilac,
with two eyelids. Puffed.
Purple.
Bruised by honey makers,
swollen from fresh stings.
If it wasn’t for the bees!
If it wasn’t for the bees!
Glass jars come, mocking.
Scarves glaring
from
thin, glass necks.
Metal heads reflecting
time.
Sun time.
September,
this will be me. Smiling.
Displaying flowers.
Preparing honey jars
for guests.
Back to my dolls. Back to familiar,
sclerotic faces.
Mother gave me one to paint. I chose
the sea for her eyes
and
cuspidated obsidian for her mouth.
She was a fill-in.
Mother howled in on muscle pills,
red cheeked fury
steaming the air, burning my hair from
its soiled roots! My bedroom door opened
itself out of her way, scarred from past poundings.
I dove under my bed, throwing
my rock-like doll to stand as daughter.
She never turned into an
apple-polished quail. She just stood.
I laid in yellow paint under
bed frames; thick structure.
And never gave Sclerotic Doll
a name.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 