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.


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