i
 
Behind glass in Mexico
this clay doll draws
its lips back in a snarl;
despite its beautiful dusty shawl,
it wishes to be dangerous.
 
ii
 
See how the dolls resent us,
with their bulging foreheads
and minimal chins, their flat bodies
never allowed to bulb and swell,
their faces of little thugs.
 
This is not a smile,
this glossy mouth, two stunted teeth;
the dolls gaze at us
with the filmed eyes of killers.
 
iii
 
There have always been dolls
as long as there have been people.
In the trash heaps and abandoned temples
the dolls pile up;
the sea is filling with them.
 
What causes them?
Or are they gods, causeless,
something to talk to
when you have to talk,
something to throw against the wall?
 
A doll is a witness
who cannot die,
with a doll you are never alone.
 
On the long journey under the earth,
in the boat with two prows,
there were always dolls.
 
iv
 
Or did we make them
because we needed to love someone
and could not love each other?
 
It was love, after all,
that rubbed the skins from their grey cheeks,
crippled their fingers,
snarled their hair, brown or dull gold.
Hate would merely have smashed them.
 
You change, but the doll
I made of you lives on,
a white body leaning
in a sunlit window, the features
wearing away with time,
frozen in the gaunt pose
of a single day,
holding in its plaster hand
your doll of me.
 
v
 
Or: all dolls come
from the land of the unborn,
the almost-born; each
doll is a future
dead at the roots,
a voice heard only
on breathless nights,
a desolate white memento.
 
Or: these are the lost children,
those who have died or thickened
to full growth and gone away.
 
The dolls are their souls or cast skins,
which line the shelves of our bedrooms
and museums, disguised as outmoded toys,
images of our sorrow,
shedding around themselves
five inches of limbo.

  • 0
  • 0
  •  
  •  
Login to comment...
Email

Other works by Margaret Atwood...