The Puppet

Day after day
Whittling away
At a small wooden puppet
Faceless.
Naked.
And dumb.
It sat upon my shelf
Sad and ignorant
Without a mind
To question its’ worth
Or feel the days
As they passed by.


One proud evening
I brought some paints
To my desk
And set out the reds
Golds and pale blues
And a splash of black.
I reached and set
My little wooden piece
On the smooth surface
Of the table.
In front of me
On the wall
Hung a mirror
That I unconsciously glanced at
As I painted.


Slowly the small creature
Was dressed
In a gray plaid skirt
And a tight red sweater
That clung to her thin wood body
Like a spider
To the wall.
And as the hours ticked by
A face grew like fungus
On the bald head
That bowed before me.
A thin sliver of tight lips
A short quick curve
To be a nose
And two glaring blue dots
Under a dark, thoughtful brow
So she could see.


My work was done
And I—the creator—
Looked over my disturbing creation
Now watching me
Out of suspicious sockets.
I finished the job
With tying the bits of string
To the bars of her wooden jail.
(Unconsciously I double-knotted
Each tight thread)


Late that night
I lay sleepless in my bed
Staring across the room
At the small wooden girl
Staring back
With a knowing smile
And a hungry gleam
In her glazed-over eyes.
I still don’t know
What happened that dark night
I can only believe
My creation put me under a spell
Of her own.


The next morning
I awoke
Yet my eyes were already open
Staring.
The maker
Was now the made.
And a lost soul
Was then trapped
Behind the pale eyes
And wooden face
In a life of theater
And performances
Day after day.