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[Crackling in the pith of the old box. Its dim light is a suspect mouth.]
RADIO VOICE. Shumann’s dolls are prided for their tenderness. Their weight. Their blushing skins. And above all… The brightness… the depth of color of their eyes. You will hold them and you will learn how to hold a real baby. You will hold them and your muscles and bones will bend and curve to coddle them. You will train your shoulder to nurse them. You will coo and gurgle for them. You will make space for them to breathe. You will not mash them. You will put your mouth and your nose closely to them to breathe soft and moist on their tender faces. You will make a hero of them. You will hold them tender to your nipple to suckle them and their tiny cold mouth will dime itself around you and you will dream the milk trickle treacley pink milk river rushing rushing rush.
Shumann’s dolls are prided for their sweetness. They are strawberry sweetie dolls. They are the cherry ripe cherubs. Lemonade piss and syrup spit. Other dolls will curdle dreams. Never Shumann’s. Shumann’s dolls bring sweet cream dreams. Tender butter tongue dreams. Tender smooth baked bun dreams. Shumann’s dolls blush you sweet, flush you rosey sweet in the plump of your middles they tend your dreams these tender lambs nuzzling your edges as you sleep. Sleeping sleeping nuzzle snoozing lips... liebchen.
[Crackle of static and somewhere in the recesses a tender waltz is hesitantly remembered. ]
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from the wall. shout. say. "make me. 