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Baby Doll

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Juvenile child paces the streets with an infant in his hands

-Plastic masterpiece of anthropomorphic detail.

It is so sweet and small,

So plush and delicate.

He runs his fingers over its rouged cheeks,

Its rounded features,

Its small, pursed lips

eternally set for thumb sucking –for sucking.

He carries it like a porcelain figurine,

Studying its features,

Contemplating the embellished implications of smiles-

A frozen countenance of artificial joy,

A deceptive happiness

(Like the so called “treatments” contemporary youth has accepted as the blissful ignorance that accompanies childhood)

Growing up thinking

that innocence is a drug we must consume periodically

with our own mothers persistently refilling the bottles.

“Is it warm enough for you?”

“Small enough for you?”

“Shall I crush it into your cup of milk?”

“Or perhaps into your afternoon snack?”

“Come now, is it chewable enough for you?”

“Sweet enough?”

Fake enough for you to accept as Reality?

Going on with these addictions as if the genius of placebos had never mattered.

He holds the baby close,

He cups it near his chest,

He tilts in backwards and sideways to see it blink

in its mechanical adorable manner.

Genderless child frozen in time

without even the luxury of a name.

No usable joints:

The fingers frostbitten.

The legs forever tense

And feet in odd disproportionate figures that are always useless for standing.

He carries it faithfully,

As a mother holds an infant’s corpse at a military death camp.

Telling herself that it’s alive even though its stopped sucking.

It’s not sucking,

It’s not breathing,

But still it somehow manages to assimilate that semi smile

And a gleaming glance that knows the possibilities of wonders.

Beautiful child lies coveted in blankets and a warm embrace;

Forever condemned to a miniature body,

To the same round features,

A tiny finger pointing into empty space.

He grabs it and twists its arm

As far as it can rotate,

As far as it can bend.

He yanks out a leg,

He deflates the stomach.

In his mind, a child’s voice pleads:

“Mother, could you love even a distorted creature?”

“A crippled infant?”

“A disfigured body?”

It is still just a baby

The left side of its face concave

And perhaps a few missing limbs.

“Mother, could you still love me even if I’m not perfect?”

“If I were a little more fragile or in need?”

The boy looks at the corrupt doll,

otherwise seen as an abomination.

He kisses its forehead,

He brushes the cold plastic against his warm cheek,

He hold it in one hand,

He dangles it from an eyelash.

Juvenile child keeps his baby close.

He smiles at its imperfections.

In its intermittent glances he sees himself…

He sees the fallacies of our creation.

-J.

Edited by AmbivalentEye
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