The Parts

The parts of a busted doll
Strewn on a table
No longer strain to integrate the greater self.

The makers who passionately made her parts
No longer feel the urge to dash her brains
Against the nearest wall but, with shaking hands

Ascend with the patient corpse
Through skylight to midnight's electric storm, chanting:
"HAMELECH! IMAM! SHANTI! SWEET JESUS!"


There is a picture of poor mad Ivan
Holding his broken son, the eyes
Bulging, searching, vacant...


Gilt frames the edges of the family photograph.
Wake up at seven—the alarm clock will help you
To glue the shattered shards to make a cup

Of coffee

Dash out the house
The little plastic pieces
Trailing in your train.

Some get trapped in the door and
One weeping like a lost child
Roams the house alone to find

A tiny purple flower on the nervosa,
Showers of wicker; a solid orange column
Breaking between blue windows.

A latch, painted in place,
Amazingly works
Like a real object,

The doorknob an image
Is solidly felt
And really turns


The image is dim.
An old man.
Walking in a daze.



© Dan Goorevitch, 2001