You were a jump rope that I
whipped ‘round myself and skipped over, and
every time you beat the ground,
your stripes were scuffed with
watermud from last Tuesday’s
abusive tempest, during which did we
herd the toys into their boxes,
the toys that held your face with
plastic, stubborn, immobile arms that
held my waist before I spotted
one galactic tear in your unblinking eye,
your clenched fists, your active tongue,
and hid ‘neath the bed scratching on paper.
