SandScript 2020

The Wet Dollhouse
Courtney Hayes Armstrong
My father carves every wooden shingle by hand
stands, never sits, a lonely night watchman on shift
shavings float down upon the Cabernet leather of his tasseled loafers
splinters wedge under his champagne and chardonnay thumbnails that dislodge inside the
cologne-infused pocket of his monogrammed shirt when he reaches for his shiny Zippo lighter
and he chips and chisels, the original square shapes not good enough for his only child, his doll,
or maybe it was the raw reality that leaving them as they were wouldn’t dare take up enough of
his sober time
So, he took the small silver hand saw and shaped each square into opulent, ornate diamonds
POETRY
I remember his hands shaking like fireflies in a mason jar in a humid Crete, Illinois backyard
plagued with zips of energy that barely allowed him to hold the innocuous white bottles of
carpentry glue whose shape only reminded him of seductive glass that housed
salty scotch and frisky whiskey and brutal bitters and
how dry his mouth was
So, he licked the rim of his empty glass and the mockery of ice turned into lacy, liquid diamonds
I am the puppeteer
pretending to live inside the Merlot walls of the dollhouse
my clumsy, unforgiving fingers danced the doll up lush, paisley Pinot carpeted steps
porcelain legs held on by mere ribbons of fraying cloth and yet, somehow, she was still
more beautiful than I would ever be, and I could only, and simply, smile, as the watchman’s love
poured down my face
So, he wiped my cheek and kissed my tears and turned them into mystical, magical diamonds
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