Because You Wanted To Become Real

I gave you a body of cloth and vinyl. You pushed and strained to move

your arms and legs but fell apart, torn clothing and stuffing scattered

on the floor. I gave you a body with a voice box and a plastic torso.

Your right arm budged minutely. I dressed you in yellow ruffles

and Mary Janes, and when I tilted your body, you muttered

in faint syllables. When your eyes gestured toward a chair or table,

I bent your legs so you could sit. When you gestured toward the closet

where I kept an Ouija board, I thought you wanted a coat that would not fit.

I played games: tea party, Mama, teacher. You rolled your eyes.

You wanted to be flesh, opposable thumbs, and a pair of legs bent

toward walking. You consisted of plastic hinges and man-made

materials. Your eyes only closed when I positioned you to rest.