One green flower pasted to a burnt up overcoat mysteries the mottled gowns hung from the shower rod, freaks the daffodilies out, lucky girls get in the house. Easy to lose time, I gather my dolls, stare at my hands as you rake the thistledown like such silk, and by color I assemble them so that Bones will be the last one in, most beautiful in her cut out curtains, and underneath she is talking.
No playing “brides” in the house, only in the yard. If Everyone removes her redskin dress she will ruin it for the others, and then what? Sit in the corner so that everything is touching. One day we will be less mechanical and leave you.
We marionette. We only story. We terrible to soil, and come gather. We trouble up the yard, what’s a mother? how much longer?
What else could I have done, but check into the Massacre Motel. Cheat the rubble collector out of old rage and oranges. Her last glass bracelet. As in the story that begins what is her name–and ends she doesn’t know, she doesn’t know. Call me Berlin. Call me your Last Descenscion. I’ve been watching you for a long time stunned by the restlessness of the Black Market. Everything’s turning into something else. The soldier’s gold teeth slipping into your hands like wedding rings. Then slipping away. Even forgiveness, as I watch you trade our mattress for a miniature boxcar. Even its wheels turn. Because in this story, there is no little girl in the rocks whispering to her dog forever, forever. Even she wants sugar bread. Even she is dying for a gamble. Tomorrow her dog will wake up locked in a stranger’s trunk for a good laugh. I want to point its fear at you, or worse, among the devastated walls of this cheap metropolis, barter away everything you’ve ever called me: burnt string, broken ladder, violent one, until I am unrecognizable. Even to myself.
Sabrina Orah Mark