Doll Street

Here they made and sold the dolls
That would be made to dance, bow,

Act, write, fight, flirt, and run off.
A still face of fixed bright paint

Could seem to weep in a sleeve,
Howl at the sky in a rage,

Or give a face much like it
A deep, kind look. We know how

To make our dolls seem like us,
At least to us. We don’t fool

Our scent-ruled dogs. We don’t fool
The dolls who don’t live for us

In spite of all the loved tales
In which they spring to pleased life,

A life we make them act out.
Some dolls play our ghosts and gods,

Some us, some beasts, some our fears.
Then we put them in a box,

Or stand them up by the hearth,
Or in a shrine, or on shelves.

Some we hide or keep as charms.
Some we use to try to hurt,

To curse, to cast spells, to harm.
Like us, the more old and worn

They are, the less they seem sweet.
Time to head back to Doll Street.