Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Nineteen Spring 2009 |
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The Doll Handler Tells the Truth about Them Kristine Ong Muslim The dolls have nothing to hide. They envy our show of white light, our puffs of nicotine breath. They like to watch us destroy what we cannot give up. They say that we are one half sleeplessness, one half hunger. Growing up inside a house full of miniature trees taught them to remain stunted, happy, and safe. Each dollhouse door dreams of a window and an eye looking past it. Each dollhouse bottle collects glitter dust, a season's worth of arsenic. The dolls have the hands of the gentlest of ghosts. That is why I never take what they have to give. The loneliest radio in the world has a belly filled with static; the dial pokes through the bone, blisters the finger tip. I hear the dolls whisper on every frequency. |
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About Kristine Ong Muslim |