Actually I feel splendidly. The operation went –
it’s over now, and this is how
I feel – nothing –
as a paper doll.
Zipped thin as children’s dreams scribbled in cheap spiral notebooks,
there isn’t much margin for a brain. My heart
(transfigured in the form of a pigbutt worm with a fat ice cream cone sticking out the other end; every micrometer paint-all pink)
can no longer beat faster or flush
fountains down the chipped stones that were my cheekbones.
And why should you care how I feel? I am a pretty doll
I come with thirteen parasols, a Yorkshire terrier, and many fashionable outfits
to conceal my straight flat underwear
from one side only. I’m a perfectly acceptable
paper doll: Look,
my hair rolls as sea-foam
(until my shoulders cut it off
wheretofore one must only imagine the lengths it would plunge to if I
But I’m only a paper doll,
one which is pleasing to punch out and look at,
and is there nothing more delightful?
Image credits in order of appearance:
By Grace Drayton – I scanned this image from my own collection of antique paper dolls., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15120349
By Artist name not readable – Cropped and rotated from 1919 “Photoplay Magazine”, article “Movy-Dols”. Via , Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4070774