Dolls In The Air Poem by Anthony Liccione

Two dolls were snatched
in anger from my hands
and thrown with a cast,
arm threads ripped, shoes
flown, white stuffing pus
beads spilled into the blue -
sewn up smiles falling down.

I was nine, but my father
was determined that I
were never to play with dolls.
I told him grandmother made
them as a present for my birth-
day and he told me perfectly,
today, I will have a talk with
your grandmother.

It was some time after. I kissed
Jennifer and came home with her
lipstick coloring my lips maroon
and the moron was there four
beers down, when he looked
at me with hate and gave me
a backhand
then shipped me to my room.

I wanted to tell him it's
not what you think,
and that I love you dad,
but I held back my words
and swallowed blood
from my lips.

Resentment had grown like
a tumor and all the sooner
I learned to despise my father,
and when he wasn't looking,
I kissed a man, and another
then another and another,
until my lips were as pressed
as white tulips, delicate -
what would have been crushed
had my father passed by
and saw our two lips pressed,
my hand stroking his back.

The dolls hit the dirt
not far from the sandbox,
where Tonka trucks plowed
and a plastic rifle had slain
imaginary robbers hiding
behind the trees.