Doll    by  Jean Frances

was beautiful. Papier mâché
with glued-on hair and blue glass eyes.
When Doll laid down, the eye balls
rolled in the head feigning sleep,
curved lashes on pink cheeks.
But sitting up, Doll fixed me
with a hard cold gaze.

Doll heard the lie, knew
a pimple grew on my tongue.
Doll saw me squeezing
baby-brother's toes until he squealed.
Doll spied when I pissed
like a boy in the flower bed.

So I took Doll to play with
in the bath     until her painted face
scabbed off in layers     watched
the golden hair drift away
on soapy water     smiled
as the stern blue eyes dropped in
and Doll was blind.

© Jean Frances
previously published in Quadrant 1999