The Doll Who Died
It had been forgotten in a world of fantastic moons.
That doll I saw, nub of a head with its life peeling off
like a caul or a bandage, lay between rivers that dirtied and danced. The legs beside it were like cloudbank, and the doll
didn’t dangle like a marionette would but slid like a mermaid
stunned by a rudder down a red rock that cried on Sundays.
It wasn’t an original doll. I had seen a similar one, years before,
floating in the China Sea. Face-up and plastic, it blew among the coral as our boat made wings under water. Both dolls were hairless and eyeless with no knowledge of numbers.
The doll that died came from a land whose signpost said “here is the beginning of bones”. The other swam to the Bay of Bengal.
No, those are two…
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