Jessi-Korpse

Robert the doll Robert the doll Stuffed with straw Three feet tall Robert the doll You've got Gene quite sad The neighbors confused And mom and dad mad. Window to window Wall to wall Strange little giggles Making furniture fall. Voices unheard Voices unsaid Sometimes when Gene wakes He's at the foot of the bed. Tortured with nightmares Night filled with fear Robert's across the room But suddenly near. Now that's enough, Robert To the attic you go Locked away there To be found again, though. Robert the doll Robert the doll Stuffed with straw, Only three feet tall.

My mother tended her first yield tender, with slender fingers interlocked in a cradle placed over her ripe stomach, the calluses raised from farm labor serving as little pillows for her son. The first time she felt the quake underneath her flesh— the little feet, the kicking feet that would someday hold up a man— she whispered his name, Masahiro, Masahiro. The son rising in the east to reflect her soul. But dawn broke too early, stretching its scarlet, wet arms over her underwear, spitting defiance in a rush of water soaking her feet. On the way to the hospital, she clutched her splitting stomach, screaming and ple