Purple gown, veil pulled
over unblinking black eyes,
my doll slaughters the other dolls
our small-town Southern version
of Fifth Avenue when friends
come by to play.
Molly Pink Cheeks.
Betsy Wetsey, Rosie SuckSuck
and Toni with her new perm.
Enroute to dolly heaven.
No challenge for Mata Hari,
killer's heart hard in her small
plastic chest. All rivals must die.
Screams, moans and Betsy's accidents
are muffled by my rug and the pops
and hisses on my cherished seventy-eight.
Mother never knows she harbors
a killer upstair or that bookies,
speeding cabs and uncurious onlookers
tample her ceiling unseen.
The clink of lemonade into glasses
distracts so We rush down the steps,
burials left for the pyre we'll light
after bellies are plump with lemon
and mother's infamous Sugar Drops.
Interview Issue MiPo Spring 2012
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