Count his toes
Did they count his toes
the morning after the night
the trees held their arms back
and let strangers pass
boughs of Switzerland
how many fingers did they have
unlatching the sash lock
of the dewy window
while I dreamt of my grandfather’s piano
of the metronome
the pendulum swings
to keyless laughter when I wake
to faces of moss and moonlight
smell of ore
they take me away through awns
this is not my home
is not my bed on bramble
not my mounds of insects and baby teeth
that is my tinplate toy in his hand
that is my strawberry ice cream
that is my circus where he reaches
for a tasseled elephant balancing
and at night he dreams in my bed
of my grandfather’s piano
of his grandfather’s piano
Flittermouse
Wisconsin is for bats
shotgunned into the night sky
few trees of refuge
a thimble church, a lone grave
cloistered youth
throw up their hands
cover their heads
God made the bats, did he not?
all religion ever taught me was how to run
all religion ever taught me was how to run
echolocating for some artifact of love
help me, I’m not that fast
Preserves
If there is a bit of God in everything
how hurt was the one
inside the canning jar
shattered on the stairs
painted and repainted again
the railing giving way
did my God break or universe
to smithereens
did my family not hold him right
put nice things inside
preserves
plums and cherries, halved pears
slices for wintering
is that the reason why
we do not deserve
nice things
was my God inside
the baby doll I wanted to keep
but was made to give away
I’m too big now I’m told
to play with dolls
did my God get rehomed
is that why he never came
to any of my birthdays
was he in the loving arms
of some other child
dressed in overalls, do they brush
his baby curls
put him to sleep in a miniature crib
feed him faux-milk
disappearing in the bottle when it tilts
and when put upright reappears again
Sam Alex
Sam Alex is a Canadian writer and woodland wanderer. She is a graduate of Niagara College. Her work has most recently appeared in The Solitude Diaries, Sardine Can Collective, and in the Trash Cat Lit short story anthology: What Comes to Light.
Header image: “The Elephant Celebes” by Max Ernst (1921)
