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November 04, 2009
Isla de Munecas
Don Julio fishes
on the shore
before his silent audience.
He speaks to them -
his protectors
their blank stares
glassy eyes
set open
or shut.
Some with empty sockets
pecked away
or fallen out
from rot.
A plastic leg
dangles
dripping rust above
discolors it
like a decrepit
blood-stained
wound.
Faded arms hang
bodies lacking appendages
even headless
drape the canopy
of sparse trees
with eerie fruit.
Dusk arrives
casting shadows
and a thousand or more
heads
seem to swivel up
their hollow skulls
waiting
for the ghost-girl
to come play.
Posted by kay at 03:11 PM | Comments (0)