She slips like a vow through
blue water, rides a white lion
that slides through her fingers,
talks learnedly of touching
her hand to the bottom. The water
is dappled by leaves with the
hearts of trees stamped on them,
with ducks whose brown feathers
ruffle the surface, with slivers
of glass. “Watch out for the glass,”
I tell her, her hair a red patch,
her body gingham. Her toys float
with her: the one-eyed doll
who says “yes ma’am” like a
stuck record, the ferris wheel
of love she rides over and over,
the yellow pencil that tumbled her
like Alice down the rabbit hole
into the wonderland of writing,
her own small hands the church
and steeple, opening the door
so here’s all the people! And
the one that beats them all
to pieces, being the one she
never got because her father
wouldn’t buy it for her, his
only gift his death served up
like rare meat on a platter.
The water slaps the toys gently,
she floats to the surface, turns
over on her own shadow, her
glistening body a certain cloud
God spins into waking and sleeping.