Кукла. A Puppet-Doll

In the evening,
you take me out of the box,
and timidly play with the threads – ropes,
it seems like a dance,
and, hiding the scissors
in the drawer of the table,
you make faces at me, grimacing.
All the same:
no new poses, colors or angles,
you exchange
the science courses for fairy tales
out of boredom,
going beyond the idle degrees –
from -110C to +110C,
from the North Pole
into cactus of the desert,
you make me breathe and kill me,
tying my hands,
you pull them to different sides,
throwing over your shoulders,
and play like the wind with my hair, –
oh, crows! – on my face,
like wings
following the waves,
black peppered and transverse.
I don’t contradict you,
having exposed
the ears of the soul.

For dinner, you iron the flesh of the seas,
drying them up to the land,
you teach me the appetizers
of rubbish and nonsense.
You kiss me and wait
for not clumsy kisses in return
through the threads – ropes,
but they get in the way! –
Checkmate! –
you leave me in the corner,
just in case! –
go to brush your teeth,
and, yawning sweetly,
from the cliff
a step away from Paradise
under the light
of the bulbs of the stars
you fall into darkness
in an instant.
;
In the morning,
like a needle in a haystack,
you search for:
the light of the Sun,
the traces of old slippers,
the shadow of your ancient hood,
mozzarella and arugula,
but suddenly
you stumble upon...
the doll,
forgotten in the dark corner.
She saw Tenderness flowing,
while you smiled in your sleep
at Spring,
dreaming of the doll
put in the corner in the evening.
Yes,
with such an awkward thought,
you take her,
and, stupidly like Google,
grabbing the threads – ropes
so tightly
out of frustration,
throw her into the box, where
there are already
hundreds of dolls
smashed
to smithereens!

August 31, 2025