THE DOLLS HAVE NO HANDS
I have seen you walk away
when you thought you were alone.
I have studied the swaying backs of your arms,
empty cushions of your hands.
and known you walk away to nothing. You are professor of void.
Wordless, you teach what left you—
the ways life closed her petals.
I ask, before my flight,
what keepsake you'd like me to send. The response: Love's head, on a platter.
You are very drunk,
have never danced for me. I don't know why
I imagine lifting you at the waist
like a nesting doll—smaller figures of you inside. Those dolls have no hands—
but in a dream I keep opening you,
until I find what is smallest—a baby that won't be separated.
I paint hands on its vibrant flesh;
they come to life and grasp my finger.
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