Torn in places, crossed with deep red welts,

But this time everywhere—as if his veins

Had pushed up to the surface and spilled out.

And there was nothing in his body now,

Nothing but the voice that spoke to me,

And this cold white light pouring through the room.

I stared at him. His skin was bright and pale.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I asked.

“Please, go away.”

“But I’ve come back to you.

I’m cold. Just hold me. I’m so very cold.”

What else could I have done but hold him there?

I took him in my arms—he was so light—

And held him in the doorway listening.

Nothing else was said or lost it seemed.

We waited there while it grew dark again,

And he grew lighter, slipping silently away

Like snow between my fingers, and was gone.

That’s all there is to say. I can’t explain it,

And now I’m sorry to have bored you so.

It’s getting late. You know the way upstairs.

But no, of course not. Let me show you to your room.

COUNTING THE CHILDREN

I.

“This must have been her bedroom, Mr. Choi.

It’s hard to tell. The only other time

I came back here was when I found her body.”

Neither of us belonged there. She lived next door.

I was the accountant sent out by the State

To take an inventory of the house.

When someone wealthy dies without a will,

The court sends me to audit the estate.

They know that strangers trust a man who listens.

The neighbor led me down an unlit hall.

We came up to a double door and stopped.

She whispered as if someone else were near.

“She used to wander around town at night

And rifle through the trash. We all knew that.

But what we didn’t know about was them.”

She stepped inside and fumbled for a switch.

It didn’t work, but light leaked through the curtains.

“Come in,” she said. “I want to show you hell.”

I walked into a room of wooden shelves

Stretching from floor to ceiling, wall to wall,

With smaller shelves arranged along the center.

A crowd of faces looked up silently.

Shoulder to shoulder, standing all in rows,

Hundreds of dolls were lining every wall.

Not a collection anyone would want—

Just ordinary dolls salvaged from the trash

With dozens of each kind all set together.

Some battered, others missing arms and legs,

Shelf after shelf of the same dusty stare

As if despair could be assuaged by order.

They looked like sisters huddling in the dark,

Forgotten brides abandoned at the altar,

Their veils turned yellow, dresses stiff and soiled.

Rows of discarded little girls and babies—

Some naked, others dressed for play—they wore

Whatever lives their owners left them in.

Where were the children who promised them love?

The small, caressing hands, the lips which whispered