Naked Killer Dolls
One could stand by herself,
being a Pedigree model,
but her voice had gone,
her real hair discoddled,
knots of locks trimmed
by nibbling vermin.
Two dolls from the loft
in one box, both hiding:
I brought them down,
as found, unbidden,
with rolled back eyes:
old toys, MADE IN BRITAIN.
From the same place
a thin negro doll,
but more limbs missing,
no hands to hold.
They sit mute and watchful,
reading us, the shocked,
with unabashed stares
and glass-eye looks.
We play tricks on the kids,
which becomes quite droll,
the unexpected placing of
those naked killer dolls.