poem #2

DOLLMOTHER

their eyes have all the love I can’t savour.

I make their clothes, and they’re so pretty;

petticoats, little tights, and all the 

colours of the human face.

I must be made of porcelain.

I can see so many delicate cracks,

all black,

like my pips of eyes,

or the hole where my heart is.

I drag my strings,

‘cause I cut ‘em

hunched and crone because I’m not made

to stand on my own. 

this face can’t smile, but theirs can.

they can’t love, but I will. 

we’ll always be dressed up pretty, though

I stitch them, after all.

their eyes, forever glass.

glazed lips, so they aren’t crass,

and stuffing down the throat 

so their screaming doesn’t last.