The Doll is not Waiting
by Clara Hsu

    He put her
    on the bed, the sofa,
    in his play chest, the floor.
    He said she was his mother,
    putting her roughly to his mouth,
    gave big wet kisses,
    squeezing her in his dreams.

    His friends came to his room
    and laughed at him,
    "Boys don't play dolls,
    boys play balls."
    He put her under cover,
    went to her secretly
    only at nights, alone,
    ashamed that he needed her.

    Then the real ones came
    with hair, sweat,
    hungry eyes,
    smothering lips,
    arms wound tight his middle.
    She now stayed in the closet
    away from his eyes,
    away from his world.

    But once in a while
    between cracks of broken promises
    he would come for her.

    In this fashion
    the endless song played
    long drawn out notes
    filled empty space.
    Until one day
    graying, divorced, separated,
    broken up with his new girl friend,
    he found the note in his closet:

    ___The doll is not waiting.
    ___She will not be back.






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