By Nancy Scott
I like to think
that my conception
brought her pleasure—
this trinket-box body
and blond doll’s head.
My right hand
is a measuring spoon;
my left
dangling worry beads.
My right foot
is a branch;
my left
a short sword.
My public history lives
in the tiny book
attached to my back.
My glass heart lives
inside hinged, Dollar Store-wood.
I am so much more
than my oddness
and my parts.
Copyright 2020 Scott