The Doll

She’s the wind-up kind. She works

on springs.

You need to use the key.

But

she will dance in lights in

white satin toe shoes, on the angles’

edges,

on the sides, tired

crinolines, time-yellowed and eyes smiling all

a bit too frayed, stiffened by the pain

of too much being handled,

of the peeling skin,

of the relentless repetition,

of not wanting to.

And

if you lay her down,

those eyes will close with relief, released even

in pretend sleep, in doll sleep,

and if you press her waist

she weeps saltless tears and cries,

“Mama… mama.”

The lost voice

Of a stolen autonomy.