Sunday, February 3, 2013


My father built a dollhouse.
Painstakingly painted it white and pink.
Carefully wallpapered, with a hinged
roof. There was no sun to
beat down on our dreams.

My apartment smells of old books
and broken promises.
There are far too many ghosts
to outrun.  Mary, Mother of God,
when will I see my face?

If you listen closely,
I can tell you a story that
sounds so real.  Good intentions
can't prevent twisted mirrors. 
Is that me in the reflection?

Sometimes I still see my dollhouse.
In the distance like a mirage.
Tell me, where are the dolls
with their plastic pasted smiles?
Nothing bad can happen…

My aunt used to smell like flowers
and vanilla.  We’d play dress up
with feather boas and long dresses.
She would tell the most beautiful stories,
And play piano while we sang.

Here’s the truth:
I used to hope I would break
Into pieces, like the stars.  That one
Day, I’d explode and be forgotten.
Food will always be an enemy.

My darling- for you there will be no
dollhouses, no perfect worlds without
problems.  Close your eyes.
We will watch the stars together,
Eating bread made by hand.

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