because a matryoshka doll is a nest made of eggs
BY GILLIAN CUMMINGS
At least she is safe. At least
her body of wood rounds at bottom.
And if she breaks, as she must, thrust
into hands happiest if they hurt her,
if she splits or shatters or goes fine, at least
she grows smaller and smaller with each dose
of the other’s pleasure, as sparrows narrow their
numbed bodies to burrow into holes carved
from cold. And if she is all hole, opening always
as sky opens to take in the wound of snow, at least—
cut her paint of patterned petals six times, she holds,
at core, a kernel of girl, a seed of soul garnered in
snugly screaming.