A Calculus of Readiness
I, too, come from the city of dolls. A small palm is my umbrella. This takes care of above but below, the blind river of sadness rolls on and in it, a hand is always reaching up to pick fish from the night-time sky. The lines on the palm of the hand lure a trout with a strand of hair from the head of a doll. The bait is the hope for a hand on your brow. Shadows play on the wall. Or the face of a doll. The plants eyeing each other is all. I would not call the stars generous. They don't cry enough for dolls to play Drink Me. They don't cast a covenant's fishy rainbow yet leaf faces watch the open window where they hang far and hard. The rein of starlight a second hand with which to play Go Fish. Now Give me a hand, plants. Now give me good-night, stars.
From A Point Is That Which Has No Part by Liz Waldner, published by University of Iowa Press. Copyright © 2000 by Liz Waldner. Used with permission. All rights reserved.