ManicDDaily

Photo by Margaret Bednar of doll house rooms at Art Institute of Chicago

Come here, Doll

He looked down at his large hands,
the thumbs, to her,
like hammers;
then up again, slyly shy,
as if he peeked out from under
his own forehead.

Winked, eyes bright as the crinkle of cellophane
off a Dutch Master,
spreading out his arms,
come here, doll.

She went over to him–what else?
He pulled her into the spread
between his legs.

She smelled, from there, his aftershave mixed
with cigar
and the hard bristle
of his face, muscle,
the heat like another biceped limb
beneath the fold of clothes, holding her
in place.

She did not quite know
what to do in that place,
so tried to hold herself against
his holding, to hold herself in, to make herself
just as small as she could get,
to not let herself
touch anything.

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A draft poem of sorts for the prompt of Margaret Bednar on Real Toads, featuring doll house rooms from the Art Institute of Chicago.  The photograph of one of the doll rooms is by Margaret, a wonderful photographer.  The prompt calls for a poem about place–I got focused on the doll aspect, but I think the poem is also about place, in a way.