There is a teddy bear hospital on the
Coffee strip street within the
Coven laden, bookshop burdened
Town I used to live.
The windows were full-bellied with
Stuffed animals and dolls
And arms and legs and torsos
And glass eyes in wooden bowls
That stared disturbingly up
At the guileless passer-by
As a constant curio reminder
That we are all going to die.
I wandered in one day when
The harbor smell hit:
The spicy, fetid warmth
Of the live sheep transport ships.
The shop was dark and dust filled
With lagoons of yellow light
On tables covered with body parts,
Baubles, frills and the like.
I watched a child’s only love be
Rough housed and knocked about
And wondered if the children
Imagined the doctor was a god
Who glues on eyes and re-sets heads,
Shoves stuffing into holes,
His soiled and greasy fingerprints
In places that will never show.
The doll ward was overflowing
With the macabre guise of flesh,
Hanging like Salem wenches,
Their joints sinuous.
A table of severed women,
A killer’s souvenirs,
With wigs gnarled and faded,
Eyes rolling in fear.
I trailed my hand in layers
Of castor-sugar dust,
And lingered until my hair
Gathered all the fragrant must
That rises from the abandoned
Bear paw and doll face
Before repairs remove
The scars of first embrace.
This is reincarnation and in
Some sepia puddle of light
A greasy fingered deity prepares
To remove my hair and eyes.