There are still many marvels, you know.
The festivals on Fridays. The divider
in the center of the wasteland.
On this side—flesh; on that—an iron claw
and a new-made screw
fallen from the factory window
at noon. The doll doctor pushes the arm
back into the socket. "There," he says.
Day is done. He wishes he could smoke
but he gave that up long ago.
The rubber sole of the nurse's right shoe
makes a squeak when she reaches the room.
Silence surrounds the empty bed.
The body is elsewhere.
"When they want more," she says, "I give it."
"When they want less," she says,
"I take it away. I always let them choose."
The doctor drums his fingers
on the doll's flat abdomen. A sea of blood
moves back and forth to a song of no mercy.
(Originally appeared in Kenyon Review and used by permission of the author.)