Jon Boisvert

Fields

If you shave a doll’s head,
the pattern left behind
looks like
cut corn fields in winter.
And after a while,
it’s all you see—
acres and acres of shaved
plastic baby head
expanded, pounded flat,
populated
with mice making holes,
murders of crows
gleaning blood like lice;
the frozen puddles’ glass eyes
look back at you,
say mother.

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