Doll Making

By | 1 August 2012

          after Vonnegut

She sits before the TV screen
and needles russet comedy from cloth.
While the re-run witch
talks through her laugh
and zap,
unravels time and space,
she fades into the ad biz of the age.

A million bony fingers
stuff gray fluff
into her carapace of cloth,
but the fabric of her mind
is much too rough;
the slightest cut
unravels it from thought.

While our interstices bleed
ice-nine into the cradle of
her life; while the digits
of our thought embroider time
and curliques of space
onto the skinship of her mirth;
and while we laugh,
say “so it goes” until we drop;

The grinning lips of comedy uncurl,
until just beyond the blackest,
vacant snuffles of pure sloth,
before we rise, before
the up-turn of a smile,
she stops,
and crowns that yarny head
with a cherry colored fools-cap
and a laugh.

Such actions speak much louder here
than words; the ends of empty stitchery,
they lift us from this fantasy,
and short commercial blurbs
to leave us with her memory,
unraveling epiphanies of trash–
and that is when,
sewn carefully to cloth,
her scarlet velvet heart
leaps out to us.

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