Inside the dollhouse the roses are pink
soft as a voice on the day of a funeral
the keys are all golden
God’s eye is yarn and some popsicle sticks
and inside the dollhouse
when you run a fever
they bring tiny cups full of Coke and chipped ice
a cloth for your forehead
cool and white as a buttermilk sky
and inside the dollhouse
you paint by the number
leaves are four and the roses are nine
but God’s eye is lazy
rolls like mercury spilled on the floor
and inside the dollhouse
your lips never part and your lashes are plastic
under your heart there are white butterflies
god’s eye is only some sticks and some twine
and all golden keys come with sympathy cards:
inside the dollhouse
there aren’t any doors.