Dolls

 

Simon MacCulloch

 

You could have used your voodoo spell to prick me with a pin

But chose instead a nest of Russian dolls to trap me in.

 

The smallest one, a baby in my image, was alone

In mimicking the contours of my infant flesh and bone.

 

And after that, each larger version carved by you of me

Dictated in advance the person I would grow to be.

 

So as an adult I consist of many layered shells

Each phase of life a parody of what its model tells.

 

And yet until we spoke tonight I hopefully believed

That somehow that first me, so long enclosed, might be retrieved.

 

But now you’ve said the baby doll is eggshell-empty too

And threatened you will open it if I should come for you.

 

And if you do that, what should I expect becomes of me?

Why, nothing, because nothing will be all there is to see.

 

You know me well enough to guess the course I’ve settled on:

An empty death to end a hollow life - and so I’m

 

 

Simon MacCulloch lives in London and contributes poetry to a variety of publications, such as Spectral Realms, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Black Petals, Yellow Mama, Blue Unicorn and others.