I forage for her, the doll of my disappointment
a spray of brittle twigs
a faggot of fallen fronds
crusty sticks with lesions of lichen
crouched over, calling up my ancient sister.
Then it is only a matter of seeing and she takes shape.
A forked branch and spindly legs start running,
shock of invisible fingers
guts hanging out
half a skirt of flax flowers,
all bundled together
leaving a strong stick where her head will go.
Overnight she stands sentinel,
my doll of disappointment,
through my sleepless 4 AM and discarded novels.
My insides agitate like giant kelp in a blowhole.
Somewhere a strange crying
but each time I get up the whimpering stops.
In the morning the pillow is wet.
I’m flimsy yet my ache weighs heavy on the bathroom scales.
I count my losses in the vanity’s distorting mirror.
It feels like something…
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