Ting. Ting. Ting.
The music box winds down.
Some dust sifts down
through the attic cracks
of the child's room.
It lands on the white lace spread,
hangs lazily in the antique sunbeams,
but goes otherwise unnoticed.
The little girl, maybe five,
watches the box run down
and leaves it open on her dresser
with the dancer frozen midair.
She does not smile.
She resembles a painting someone intended
to be cute, yet devoid of any
entertaining facial value.
You see these kind of girls lacing daisy
chains and serving dolly teaparties.
They appear to have pouts rather than mouths.
Their hair, always light brown and strait,
hangs down their neck, tied with a pert, precise bow
in a half-pony. It shines golden in the sunlight.
The blush to her rosy cheeks looks too real to be painted on.
Much too peach.
She kneels down beside her bed,
folds back the comforter with its lace edging,
revealing the age-worn front and top
of an antique toybox.
It has sienna or umber streaks
where the paint has chipped and worn smooth,
just like you would expect it to.
When it was new, a rose-coloured heart
swirled about with ladylike blue ribbons
showed itself on teh edge of the fold-open lid.
With her pout-mouth set,she coaxes the box out of
its secluded hiding spot,
tugging at its edges with her
No nail polish.
She wipes her hands on the calico apron
of her lace-and-frills dress, and pays
no attention to the itch
of her lacey sock sliding down.
She opens the box.
The two dolls inside stare at each other.
They have been laid to face each other.
They do not smile either.
The girl takes them out, man and woman,
and leans them stiffly against the toybox.
They seem to see nothing,
She has done this many times before.
The two dolls dance and appear to kiss
before she takes their clothes off.
None of them say a word.
She spreads the girl doll's legs apart
and shoves the boy doll against her,
rocking them back and forth so their
porcelain pelvises thrust and retreat
from one another.
The boy doll's hands are placed on
the girl doll's breasts.
She doesn't mind. He hair is falling
Wildly around her shoulders and neck
as her sightless eyes stare into his,
dying to say something that they cannot.
She runs a ceramic hand across his
pretend penis while she strokes herself
with her other hand. His hands squeeze
her breasts, rolling the hard buds of her painted nipples
beneath his thumbs, concentrating instead
on ramming the ever-hard end of his member
into her spotless, wet china-doll cunt as if
it was the only purpose
of his existence.
There are no professions of love.
No cries in the night. The girl's pout
stays firmly fixed in place.
The dolls finish their profane act
and lay down next to each other
on the carpet before the toybox.
The little girl fixes their clothes again,
and the dolls are placed togehter
in their coffin-like chest
with the heart and ribbons worn off the top.
Tuned to face each other, they see nothing,
they say nothing.
She closes the box on their false faces.
None of them smile.
She struggles to shove the wooden box
back in its dark space
beneath the bed. after no end of
scooting, rubbing and scraping,
the end of more than a few failed paint slivers,
the box is in its previous position
and the girl drops the dusty, white coverlet
back over the dolls in their secret hideaway
until the next time.
She sits at her dresser and doesn't smile.
She winds up the music box again. Ting. Ting. Ting.