by Megan Norman
I’m well accustomed to picking the eyes of dolls. It seems.
The thread is so tempting. Even though it’s often a
mess underneath my fingernails, that are so rotten.
There are these gold dolls formed from an
angelic mold. Sometimes I glue on black black
wings. From dead crows.
There was one, on my own sidewalk. It looked so nice,
to pet and I just had to pluck a few
dreamy feathers. Which is okay, since it’s
dead and all.
Sometimes, I think, I’m trying to form a web
with thread, just to get close to
something whole. I do have the tears, sometimes, the
fit, when they don’t say ‘hi’. The
dolls, I mean. They lack ivory tongues, flowery socks, and
a messiah, of any sort, I believe. No one would love them, but
me. I love their battered toes, radio lit noses, perched crow
poses. Their eyeless smilings, moon light pilings, telephone leg
wirings. Deformed darlings.
Today, a red letter, possibly soaked in day old
blood. It stained my mailbox. Not amused. It was from
the crow, even though it was quite blank. It read it read it was
a thread, of sorts, some poorly popped out bones, some sickly red, some
cry fire yellow, a coin all matted and bruised, and fifty fitful feathers, a gleam of
corvidae feathers, that crawled from the void of years. It pained my heart.
I feel I am not this. Either.
I know what I must do. To save a little part of the
world or underworld, whichever cares most. One key, three keys, there are
a lot of keys, all of them dark and sad. Like me. I hold the keys close to
me, they are, scared little darlings. They are threaded together primitively, meanly
by me. So many doors, I’m bound to fall through, through and through, without any
wings or glue. One glassy stairwell, sea shine blue. It is ready.
To record the grotesque the grandiose voices, which have been so silent
for so long. Without nail or niche to sing to. Without the breath to know
how. My stupid foot steps muddy the sound. And my heart, my heart tries to
thread its own song, make its own long long way to the light. My silly silly
heart. A song like the rings of water stones, or the grave unclosed
on the little souls that battled the cold for too long. I want to kiss them
all. I am so sad. I can already feel the webbing of whispers coming up
All of them, gathered in a line. Crocodile skin bows,
rabbit tongue purses, squirrel tail teeth, dog breath
pendants, butterfly stained skin. Bear like brides and whale like
ties. Bears. Whales. Insect brains mammoth games horse hoof manes rhinoceros names star fish pains camel back rains sea horse stains cow slaughter strains house cat tames
jellyfish veins moon back wanes black crow blame
All of it
All of this
Megan Norman is a senior at the University of Iowa majoring in creative writing and theatre. Previous publications include Danse Macabre and The Susquehanna Review. She enjoys strange fashion, playing the piano, and her pet rabbits. Her favorite poet is Emily Dickinson. She would like to thank her fiance Michael Alliss for support and inspiration.
One Reply to “The Doll Show”
…….it’s interesting. though, I must say, it’s alot like listening to Drusilla without any context for what any of it means.
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