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The Poetry of Kevin Morris

“The Voodoo Doll”

By Rose Fairchild

I’ve lived one long life and died a thousand deaths; been
tortured more times than I’d care to count. But not alone.
There’s always someone else along for the ride. Someone I
hold captive inside me, and the true target of the savage-
ry.
My skin is scored with so many scars, it loosely resem-
bles burlap. My mouth has been slashed wide and stitched
totally shut, my heart and eyes gouged out only to return

later. The creativity born from people’s hatred is bound-
less and I am forever amazed at their viciousness.
Our most recent customer has brought me hair from her
intended victim. My assistant offers them to me and I use
my tongue to roll it into a ball before swallowing it with a
generous helping of wine.
The man’s DNA begins running through my veins and I
feel myself changing as his essence is pulled into me. As
he is absorbed into my flesh and we become one.
I see the eager look on the woman’s face as she raises her
blade skyward--the frantic look of fresh hurt written all
over her face. I wonder what he’s done to her, but I never

ask.
As she plunges the blade downward, I leave the man on
the surface, feeling his terror as I hold him prisoner. I
dive into my sacred space and feel myself scream with
him, though I only vaguely feel the pain. It’s just part of
the ritual of channeling his flesh through my own.