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MaryhillPoems
In the dark velvet lining of a humid gilded box is a little china doll: a delicate charm for her grandmother's gold bracelet. She lies languid. Her sinews are chains and her bones glass. Light swarms through her: a mess of wispy snakes. At noon it bounces wildly like the pinball game she's heard so enthusiastically described in a wildly raucous rock and roll song. Tentatively she reaches for the stars painted through her hair raised a bit like brail and hot to the touch. They're made of fire billions of miles away. They have halos radiant at midnight. At midnight the humid gilded box is damp and muggy and she twists and wakes sullen with panic and covered in stardust. The grime of the moon coats her gingham dress, collected as she skidded to home plate. Precious Darling, Bless her heart, for unbeknownst to her the humid gilded box is within a teapot, upon a shelf, within a cupboard, beside a grandfather clock that chimes at each curly hour and rattles the gilding so that as the hours pass - as the days disappear: her darling little precious box dims like the tapestry her grandmother hung to mourn the grandfather clock.
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Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
The Grandbaby Doll
In the dark velvet lining of a humid gilded box is a little china doll: a delicate charm for her grandmother's gold bracelet. She lies languid. Her sinews are chains and her bones glass. Light swarms through her: a mess of wispy snakes. At noon it bounces wildly like the pinball game she's heard so enthusiastically described in a wildly raucous rock and roll song. Tentatively she reaches for the stars painted through her hair raised a bit like brail and hot to the touch. They're made of fire billions of miles away. They have halos radiant at midnight. At midnight the humid gilded box is damp and muggy and she twists and wakes sullen with panic and covered in stardust. The grime of the moon coats her gingham dress, collected as she skidded to home plate. Precious Darling, Bless her heart, for unbeknownst to her the humid gilded box is within a teapot, upon a shelf, within a cupboard, beside a grandfather clock that chimes at each curly hour and rattles the gilding so that as the hours pass - as the days disappear: her darling little precious box dims like the tapestry her grandmother hung to mourn the grandfather clock.
Maryhill
Written by
Maryhill
American
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
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