For Olga and her parents
He put music boxes inside their rib cages
so they’d sing him to sleep,
lullabies echoing in their chests.
He wanted them lining his bedroom,
the shelves of his flat. He wanted them singing,
chirping “look at that.” They hummed off tune.
One day soon he’d make them breathe again.
Can he take them with
to the mental hospital. Can he have his dolls.
The ones he dug up with his hands from the dirt,
twenty-nine mummified little girls
dressed in stockings and skirts,
with lipstick and rouge.
Can he take them with. Don’t put them back
bruised, where he found them. Their markers still there.
A poem I wrote for Rattle’s Poets Respond. This poem was disgusting to write, as disgusting as this article was to read. About a grave robber who dug up the bodies of 29 little girls and turned them into human dolls.