Pediophilia

       Love of dolls

 

My aunt's room in her parents' house became

a home for dolls the week she died. The first

a neighbor's fearsome, glass-gazed gift that dulled

my grandma's utter grief; the next a paint

and porcelain she numbly bought one night

from QVC. It looked like her. And now

she sees her children's children grow, and knows

it's good. But they can't guess each tiny dress

arranged by day comes into disarray

by night. They bring her dolls; naïve, as she

weeps in the overflowing sea of limbs

that managed, year by year, to commandeer

the bed, the floor, and more…an orphanage

of girls. Hundreds of eyes that cannot shut. 

 

Atephilia       

       Love of ruin

 

A phantom feeling: lashes fluttering

against my cheek. No flesh, no nerve. Wax wings: 

imaginings that spring from wish alone.

The thirsty wanderer endures the same

fateful mirage: eats sand and tastes champagne.

You seem so whole; I'm left no room to mourn

the rubble we've become. The pilgrimage

we make each day; our devastated bed

beguiles. And we are sights to see. Engaged

by graveyard days, I rest against your head-

stone chest like flowers, so you'll understand

what wilting is. One kiss with ravaged lips.

Embrace with wasted lust. Remaindered man

and woman wrecked by wants. This mess is us.