Our Geisha Doll

I call it a box.  You call it a glass case.
Our geisha stands inside

robed red, skin porcelain white.
Is she more lovely contained

like a painted egg
in a sealed cube?

This morning when I came downstairs
to measure coffee, her door was open.

I thought about your hands fanning
my naked skin.  The way we come together

in love and separate.  How excited
you get when I wear my hair up like hers.

I want to talk to you about wild dune grass,
water that runs and runs,

why men call women’s love place
a box,

how our geisha balances
on such tiny feet.

Joyce Greenberg Lott