Little Puppet

Whose penetrating fingers
Manipulate her little heart?
She speaks of an orphaned
Homunculus perched
On the tip of a flower.

Trees stretching into the sky
Race past, crowned with antlers.
The blue mirror breaks.

Hands like caterpillars from trees
Dangling down to the grass.
She pulls at the string of light,
That little black heart craving for the moon,
Rattling in the silver box.

I’m sewing—
In her broken sobs
Sewing a mask of time
Onto her smiling cheekbones.
I’m transplanting the wound
Into the mirror of morning.

Little puppet, little puppet,
Your mouth no longer cries for surprise,
Eyelashes of light
Peel off
Your gloomy shoulders,
Your crossed, overlapped hands
Sliding into my seamless skull
Sewn into
An inhuman thing.