Dolls By Brian Koester

The dolls only move

when you’re not looking.

They wait til deep

in the night.


I am an action


as fragile as

a peppermint stick

and as easy

to dissolve.


The music box plays

Dark Eyes;

our bodies listen.


Who will get sick?

Who will go


Who will steal blood?


The dolls talk.

The dolls choose me.


Under silk,

under velvet,

under satin,

their skin.


I only survive

by the luck

of the rising sun.


Brian Jerrold Koester is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a Best of the Net Anthology nominee. He lives in Lexington, Massachusetts and has been a freelance cellist.

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