Made babies,
putty skin and hairlines like roots in a riverbank,
toes like dimples in dough.
We dragged them by the hair or one leg,
hugged them, smothered them in our sleep.
Cheap or porcelain,
they could be scolded, told to sit up,
be quiet, quit giggling, act like somebody.
Put down in drawers for naps,
cooed over, cuddled, cried on.
We tested scissors on them.
We left them naked and the dog got at them.
We used allowances
for their wardrobes and gave them dates,
fed them imaginary cakes,
had them slap someone.
Sometimes they died
and were resurrected as an aunt
or woman who raised cattle with her boots on.
Their breasts were surprising
and we wouldn�t let boys touch them.
Some were blackened
by getting too close to a fire.
Some would not bend.
Some drank and wet.
Some spoke three words when hugged.
Some had a string to make them talk.
Some had babies of their own.
Some sang.
Even though small, some were tall.
Some came apart.
Some opened their eyes.
Michael Chitwood