A Dollmaker's Son

His porcelain cheeks rouged
by your crafty palm, the same
that skirted me around puddles.
I saw you brush the eyes with a hazel glaze
and I winced while brushing mine. They felt

a little dry. You told me, while crafting hands
soft and white as talcum, that I was perfect. I sheathed
mine in my pockets, watching as you placed him
on a shelf beside a doxy doll. Her arms
outstretched and eager. I told you
how it must be hard. Even pretty dolls, yours
too, must be lonely. Mussing my hair, you

said they weren't for touching. You misunderstood;
I didn't want one. "But I've planned a marriage
just in case." I closed my eyes to see it first.
In a tiny church, you put him
in a tux at her side. It would be black
and white to match his hair and egg-shell
husk. You saw me, eyes squinted shut, and laughed.

"Every fold and feature looks like yours." I pressed
the lids together harder, wishing he had legs that worked
like mine. In my head, they were coiled like springs
about to launch him out and downward. I saw him squinting
too, harder than I was, maybe, his eyes like sidewalk cracks slit
cross-ways on his face. If we could fall together, we might burst
through the floor and break free from our bodies.