2 Poems

There’s nothing brittle of you

but your face with its hairline crack

along the bridge of your nose.

And those gray, glassy eyes that stared

down the postal carrier and the dog walkers

from the wicker carriage on the porch.

O! doll of the horror movies I tried

to avoid, restrained, your rubber limbs

turning viscid and orange—here, I am

dissecting you.

Under the fabric, nestled in

the wool innards, that which

once cried. It sits on the counter, shiny

but mute, beside you, a hole in your belly

perfect as the circles we'd press

from a slab of dough and then

bake and then eat, like that.

I could fill you with jam

and sew you back up—little stitches

like what he pulled from my wrist

late that morning.

Your hair is flattened

and matted

and ash blonde.

Your top lip red.

The bottom worn away.

Your blue corduroy coat

has stains the color of bitter tea

and your one pink shoe—your one pink shoe

never stays on.

Once, you were lovingly walked.

There was perambulation.

Your head kept warm

with your matching blue cap.

Now, you’re nothing

anyone wants, even for free.

Blotch on your left temple.

Battered knees.

What we ate near or on large bodies

of water ransacked. Even if we could

lie down on the narrow bed, it wasn’t

for long, having to then make our way

to brighter, harder places. To lean.

To rid ourselves of what swung and

rose and wrecked. What if we were

found with our cheek pressed to

the cool tile, saying little, honestly

nothing—having withdrawn in-

ward to where all sounds sounded

dim and muffled? Others slept.

Silly: those hours before, thinking

all would be well. This passage.

This bitter hollowing we were

insensible to.