I want to be
the doll I recall,
not the mouldering rag
I’ve become,
afraid of the sun,
rooted to the shelf,
dusty head waving
like a funhouse image,
stitched on smile
twisted back upon itself.
I want to jump
from my careful stance,
prop up my wobbly legs
and dance – or run.
I want to look rot
in the eye and spit.
I want to quit
turning myself inside out
to expose the ragged seams,
to find the means
by which the sawdust pours.
I want more.
