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.
Photo By: AndyLeo@Photography