Saturday, September 5, 2009

Vasilissa's Doll

I am the house and the hut with chicken legs that turns to face us.
I am the sea cave speared through by the foundations of skyscrapers.
The glitter and shine of bare bones,
the scaffolding and crane, the tented buildings,
the outskirts of the forest with trees bent like ribs.
Strange enough without shadows.

Here I am, one hand in yours, the other searching for skeleton keys
in the soft cloth of her unwritten pocket. Private finger cave
of receipts, crumbs, stones and small change. Here is
the dull-eyed doll who comes to life at night,
feeding my cheeks of milk and blood
as my hair grows down to my waist.

I like to tell you this story, you, keeper of water and all
the paths it makes when trapped, bent forward in your chair
like the red rider, have asked me to close my eyes and feel
the quiver, Saraha haha.
I laugh, I know you’re winging it.

This is grown in the dark too, in the chambers of involuntary muscle
and it will go one way or another. I am picking
the black grains from the wheat.
When you tap me on the shoulder I turn
to nothing


arrowseye said...

so this is where your keeping the good stuff intriguing the spin and waft of this told with a wry grin and knowing way....and i am most impressed by the "trees bent like ribs". ae.

Jé Maverick said...

Nice one, poetry lady. ;)

Graham Nunn said...

this has a beautiful sense of menace Amanda. a darkness waiting to spill.

Amanda Joy said...

I like the trees bent like ribs line myself AE :)

@Je wondering when exactly you're going to tire of that one???

@G :)

Jé Maverick said...

Tire? I'm a machine.

Anonymous said...


W.F. Roby said...

"the dull-eyed doll who comes to life at night"

This is harmonious.

The ending -- "I turn / to nothing" -- is eerie and small and precise.

Thanks for the read.

tania lamond said...

perfect ending for this piece.

tan xx