Sunday, April 6, 2025

poem

 Russian Doll

Nothing I do is my own

I’ve always just copied everyone else

Down to my accent, gestures and laugh

If you peek inside, there’s nothing there.

I made the mistake once of looking

Deep down and it was like an elaborate

Matryoshka doll trick a mean uncle 

Plays on you for your birthday.

Each box I opened contained a smaller one

And then a smaller one, you get the idea.

The last box, the smallest one, came 

Wrapped in glossy gold paper

As light as any professed faith. 

I hesitated before tearing it open

Feeling the hot snarl of his eyes

As he watched across the room 

Only to find it bone empty

Like a plundered Egyptian tomb.

Alas, this was the great trauma of my life

And I didn’t want anyone to know

So I closed it tight and thanked him

For his kindness and stowed it away

In the attic 

With all the old ribbons and dusty trophies.

Afterward I began to steal from others

All the things I liked

And gave them away as gifts.

Every box had something in it

And if they didn’t like it, fine,

It wasn’t even mine. 


4/6/25

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