First Cutting
by Barbara Whittaker
Forbidden blades meet awkwardly
catching cloth in gathered folds
lacerating tiny seismic peaks
Equally material,
arm or leg or plaited hair would
just as unconcernedly have
borne the biting steel
- private vassal
- effigy of self
- only object under her control
Perhaps the doll seemed more disposed to
calculated injury
Perhaps it proffered something
less finite
But even with the cutting,
insult adds to injury the
emblematic threads of
scars unseen,
unravelling where
any eye might see
- irreversible hurt
- unforgivable sin
- inconsolable despair in place of balm
the gash a lasting testament to shame
Bewildered mother’s hurried needle
roughly tacks the dolly’s dress
only salting fresh dismay
with ugly telling stitches
The reason for the cutting
left unremedied
The motive for the vengeance
left unpaid
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