Corrugated box with floppy wings
howling from a gape–that
mournful dog.
My duty
manifests threads
unraveled by revelation
in Svetlana’s isolated face laminated
on cardboard, pleading with me to
share a phantom dance as
her tension wanders in tepid
waters; distance compels skating
ambition until scandalous betrayal
spits brutal retribution, jealous
rage and sharpened jabs to expel
vicious silence.
He debates the
scoundrel in the mirror, eyes
defiant: refuse to surrender,
shred the doll and bundle
those discarded husks,
conceal the torment–
shed the flesh
down the
drain
to Truman Reservoir.
Daddy guards your journey
never vanquished,
yet balking,
Svetlana’s skull in
the trunk–
a boulder
too great to throw.
“Mommy will be okay,”
pins down his mantra.
Mercy secures wings
with a blabbering
tape gun.
