A Living Doll (April 9, 2009. New Pink Moon. Issue 3)

The little plastic doll I bought
to amuse the cats shows signs of life.
It yawns and stretches its limbs.

Cast in one piece of orange vinyl,
it lacks rudimentary organs,
the daylight bleeding through it

like water through a bog. You laugh
and prod to provoke it. You claim
such toys often evolve to act

on their own when no one’s looking—
this one just doesn’t care. Wriggling
in my pocket as we snowshoe

across the fields in windy glare,
it feels comforting and friendly
as a hand grenade. “Here,” I offer,

and you cuddle it with mittens
you knit from raw gray alpaca.
The doll wrestles like a puppy.

But its expression changes; it grabs
a thumb and twists it. You scream
your modest cinematic scream

and drop the thing in the snow. It sinks
headfirst. Its legs writhe like weeds.
I pluck and squeeze and pocket it

and zip it into the dark.
Your thumb isn’t broken but
the malice of the doll has shocked you.

The frozen fields look dreary now,
and we turn back toward home. The crunch
of snow is the shatter of bone,

and the wind is an arrogant cry.
We’ll toss the doll in the woodstove
and pretend it never happened.               

The smoke of its devolution
will dissipate so quickly
it won’t embitter a soul.