Insides

Lesley Wheeler

They crack in the middle like
eggs, dolls inside dolls with sly painted
hands. Rebecca owned a nest

of them, diminishing 
to a weet sixth woman, yawning
round red oh. She's the nut

of a ghost, apple
ancestor, clicking like a 
baby in a womb.

She has no hands.
The others mother round 
and parrot her

faces swelled 
to lashed detail, and 
fat repose.

They can 
break and become 
simple.