Doll

When I’m sick of black night

I sit up from dreaming, open my mouth to speak.

The little doll glitters in brown light,

and I speak in a voice not my own,

muttering the nonsense I’ve always wanted to say.

Like a still life, like a dark lightbulb

the ugly doll’s unhurried,

can’t guess its wild heart.

When I twist the lamp switch, dreams ignite the paper,

sad dreams of childhood playmates.

Lying in my hand, one stitch and another

sews its face on, its smile.

I dream of the night when it opens its mouth to speak

and comes to my bed,

the white bed dividing life from death,

draped in the white mosquito net.

The doll’s eyes

utterly serene,

its doll dream

drifting toward my world;

how bitter my own dreams, seeing you

every night standing at my bedside,

your hands like scissors

whenever you want to hurt me.