I don’t really ‘get’ this poem, and yet I love it. Sometimes it is nice to have a little mystery in a poem. It is both whimsical and dark, all at once. I think I relate to it as a maker of things, also. I make small dolls myself and agree there is something entirely sinister about the process – like pretending to be god. Do tell me what you make of it. Here are the other Tuesday Poems.
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Stuffed

by Carol Ann Duffy

I put two yellow peepers in an owl.
Wow. I fix the grin of Crocodile.
Spiv. I sew the slither of an eel.
I jerk, kick-start, the back hooves of a mule.
Wild. I hold the red rag to a bull.
Mad. I spread the feathers of a gull.

I screw a tight snarl to a weasel.
Fierce. I stitch the flippers on a seal.
Splayed. I pierce the heartbeat of a quail.

I like her to be naked and to kneel.
Tame. My motionless, my living doll.
Mute. And afterwards I like her not to tell.

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