I spend most nights making chains of little dolls

out of folded construction paper — drawing

a woman in a triangle-shaped skirt on the top

layer, cutting her out, and unfolding a neat row

of duplicates. I make sure to give each set

of dolls a deformity of some kind: one leg shorter

than the other, a misshapen head.

When my beloved opens the top dresser drawer

and discovers them — hundreds of them —

he will brush his firm thumb over each doll’s

disability, touching her with the same tenderness

he uses to trace the lumpy scars of my left hip.

That night, each doll will try to dream herself whole,

his touch almost convincing her she could be loved.