Every god is lonely, an exile
composed of parts: elk horn,
cloven hoof. Receptacle
for wishes, each god is empty
without us, penitent,
raking our yards into windblown piles. …
Children know this; they are
the trailings of gods. Their eyes
hold nothing at birth then fill slowly
with the myth of ourselves. Not so the dolls,
out for the count, each toe pouting from
the slumped-over toddler clothes:
no blossoming there. So we
give our children dolls, and
they know just what to do
line them up and shoot them.
With every execution
doll and god grow stronger.
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