all those dolls

I have eight hundred dolls,
the woman tells me, as I enter her house.
on the dining room table
is a two foot tall
replica of Marie Osmond in a wedding
dress.
she's staring blankly with
her black Mormon
eyes towards the far end of the house.
I look in that direction too.
dolls are everywhere.
there are two rooms full of them,
sitting on shelves.
standing, some are in glass cases,
sealed in plexi-glass boxes.
many are dressed
in costumes. Dorothy from the wizard
of oz.
the tin man, the lion, the scare crow.
there are dolls sitting on the end of her bed.
legs folded, stiff backed
with porcelain.
I collect dolls, she says,
sweeping her short heavy
arm about the room,
we go into the basement, there are
more dolls.
all staring with simple smiles
on their faces.
cheeks forever puffed with words
that will never be spoken. I love my
dolls she says,
slightly out of breath,
do you have any children?