Dream of the Dancing Doll

This post is something of a departure for me. It's the longest poem I've ever written, for one thing, which is why I'm not posting it for a prompt--it's a lot to ask for someone making the rounds of many sites to read a poem of this length. Unlike most of my posted poems, I haven't added much punctuation or  the other neatening I usually do; it's here just as it came out of my head, for the most part. 
It's also taken almost word for word from the transcription of a dream I had at the beginning of the month that covered pages of textual notes--I have cut all I felt I could, and still end up with a freight train of verses. I've worked on it as much as I think will be productive, so it's going up and out of the way. Many many thanks to Fireblossom for her help with analysis and for her encouragement. And to anyone with the patience to read, my thanks in advance.

 

Dream of the Dancing Doll

i.

Sent to save the

dancing doll

wrapped in red and

shut in a box

in the crowded house

of uncaring party where

the blademen run wild

slashing and laughing

I ran with her

but you stopped me in the plaza,

at the booths of despair and dream,

where the noise was a storm of  money.

You stood in your blue frown

and said I’d failed the trust; perhaps,

but what about her was wrong? Your silent eyes 

were hooded  in the running lights.

Inside the box her wrist

still dripped

cut because they took her

from the dance

I saw her at the party

the dancing doll dressed in red

pale hair and curved mouth

she danced and so she smiled

We heard the music wild

where others heard the chatter

spooned it in  bottomless cups of ears

til nothing else could be.

ii.

the black men cooking eggs

help stop the blood

but can’t leave the kitchen

they saw her make the cut

they wrapped it tight

wrapped all of her

in bands of red satin

to hide the dark flower

with the sleeve they tore from

her red satin dress, tore across again

the cocoon strips to make her

a mummy  in her matchbox

The men in liver dinner jackets

shrank her to a twist of

finger, boiled her tongue till

she could no longer speak, but her eyes

her eyes found mine

just before they bound them

her head tossing

in the red satin mask

I  heard her glance

shattering  me and stole the box.

We ran in the dying minute for the place

where only the dance matters

not the promise

not the conditions, not the control.

From the quicksand trap I ran with her

to where all bleeding stops.

iii.

It was hard to run

in the long skirt

I wore to the party at

the house of gold

petal flare of denim blue

a soft clamor, the red apple that

parts the green leaves of heart

shroud covered. Running through,

I watched the others play,

with dice, with men

with ivory cards, bags of storebought

monkeys, bored laughing eyes of stone

no one noticed she was gone,

the vacant air where she once danced

her head tipped back to the ride

the doors of her eyes closed and bolted.

I liked the tall man

who stood in giant pants his belt

above my head but his ogrish hands

could only break a doll

There was only me to

save her so I did.

she was small and perfect

in her box, tossing, tossing

her tiny head, bleeding,

wrapped too tight

her fine eyes covered

with a red death mask

but I knew if I found the place

where the wild music played

she would dance again.

So we ran, picked up our skirts

and ran to where I set her down

and left her dancing,

in her  red dress with the

missing sleeve.

behind us oblivious mirrors,

the  empty crowd  with

eyes of gold, tongues of

dollars chattered on.

June 2011