Dolls
Simon
MacCulloch
You could have used your voodoo spell to prick me with a
pin
But chose instead a nest of Russian dolls to trap me in.
The smallest one, a baby in my image, was alone
In mimicking the contours of my infant flesh and bone.
And after that, each larger version carved by you of me
Dictated in advance the person I would grow to be.
So as an adult I consist of many layered shells
Each phase of life a parody of what its model tells.
And yet until we spoke tonight I hopefully believed
That somehow that first me, so long enclosed, might be
retrieved.
But now you’ve said the baby doll is eggshell-empty too
And threatened you will open it if I should come for you.
And if you do that, what should I expect becomes of me?
Why, nothing, because nothing will be all there is to see.
You know me well enough to guess the course I’ve settled
on:
An empty death to end a hollow life - and so I’m
Simon
MacCulloch
lives in London and contributes poetry to a variety of publications, such as Spectral
Realms, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Black Petals, Yellow Mama, Blue Unicorn
and others.
