Chana Bloch

The Family Inside the Russian woman there's a carved doll, red and yellow to match her, with its own child inside. The smallest, light as a salt shaker, holds nothing but a finger's breadth of emptiness. Every morning we are lifted out of each other, arms stiff at our sides. In the shock of daylight we see our own varnished faces everywhere. At night we drop back into each other's darkness. A tight round sky closes over us like a candle snuffer. We sleep staring at the inside.