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“look down at thy feet
Feet get dragged, Dora’s feet
dragging across the linoleum
floor
For fear of shaking All
the burnt Lights A puckered
ribbon of skin Waste
Her desecrated doll-chair
Her murky fish tank
Hey
you, vigilant watcher Suckity-
suck It’s snowing on the tv
The peachy peach pit, glowing in her doll-stomach
Dora cannot fix this Her fur
wreath Histrionic Its needles
Their steel spines
“The violets seem to puke a bit
Open-shut, open-
shut
All the split seams Her
doll-shoulders Framing
The snowflakes Her bed
with Their tiny pores
Her fleshy pit
*
(a specter of wooded
raw making and honeyed
the necessary caricature
being slatted and grooved)
But
Suck-a-thumbs Her girl
hood coughing attacks Peachy-
peach With views fantastic
Her slender doll-catheter
(It’s STAINLESS)
Her own milky glitter-sweat
Her lurid doll-shells
Her limber doll-gut
“Forgive me In all things
The part that tries Each
barricaded sail The quiet
trussing
A butter knife, slipped beneath her doll-pillow
Kathleen Miller
Kathleen Miller is a poet and social worker who lives in Brooklyn, NY. Her writing has been featured in journals such as Shampoo, Matrix Magazine, Bay Poetics and How2.