I am not doll, but sometimes wish to be
Featherweight, a flying thing with tinted wings
A flowing dark dot in a minnowed brook
A tiny teacup full of lime green juice
Drink me, they say, eat me, I don’t.
I have a way of looking
Which is astonished bewilderment
A little sharp razor which is words
A dob of paint and a needle to stitch up
Any seams that pop
Sometimes my legs and arms are fearful
The joints pulled out so they dangle
Those are bits that no one sees
Other times I slip gracefully into bed
Wearing my butterfly pin and my silver wig
I am guessing you wish to love me
After a Fête Galante of chat ups?
But do it the way of a witch
Mind the buttons and cotter pins
My indifference to mortal things
Remember I am antique.