poem07 Feb 2011 11:18 am

He twists the needle in the doll’s neck
a tiny doll that is made from wool
and my dawn bright hair
it fits his hand just perfectly
although the doll’s painted face
looks nothing like mine

My lips release a scream and pleasure
drops from his eyes
like ripe fruit from a tree
his dark copper skin is slick with moisture
and his teeth are shiny white
behind pink lips

Witch-doctor they call him
but never to his face
to his face, they add a ‘Mr.’ to his name
I gave my hair to him willingly
but even so
he tricked it from me
with false softness
and words much finer than those of any actor
on the stages of this world
he gave me the scissors
and I
cut it off myself

The needle is clean
silvery it shines and looks
as if this doll is the first it pierces
but I doubt it
he is not a young man after all
my skirts crumble against the floor

His hand that holds the needle
pulls back
and I groan involuntarily
he rolls the needle between
his thumb and fingers
storm clouds and forbidden pools
are nothing compared to those eyes
that hold me like a promise
his meaty pink tongue
has a life of its own as it slithers
across his lips

his eyes leave me,
look down
and with his needle poised
he considers the doll


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