I Am Not the Good Doll

fish up an old rag from the lake, and wring her
neck before setting off again in your canoe, paddling
towards the deeper end, opening behind the turn,

until the island comes at you with the force
of suns, the vigor of bursts of helium flying
away from the reservoirs saved
for our last remaining balloons. careful

not to break your fingers trying to push away
back into the thick water, molasses thick with
algae and other green things: your green days

still surging forward. lie under the beads that can
pass for stars on a night saturated with
sweat and wine, hold the blood back, close your veins
(though not before the night knife slips in by mistake,
makes a mark that will, in five days,
shimmer with barely healed luminescence, a thin shaft

of light on your skin). i am not

the good doll, whose smile is reticent, demure,
forever. shafts of light mark my skin, and i don't like being touched.
i have tried to evaporate myself, down to a
hologram. if you look at me one way i will lie with you.
if you look at me another, i will not.

*edited version. originally written on may 4th, 2007.