WHAT LITTLE GIRLS
Tapir, pure tapir—all wide,
to the core, union of fly rod
then all the way back down Mount Kinabalu.
As American as a forest fire enveloping
With wheat berry eyebrows, resides
Also of the sorrowful women of Durer.
Of Athena—all brains from the get-go, over-
hare-bell from bluebell, every genus
on conifer know-how, reminding us
Of granite, with meteor shower
pre- and just- rainfall, her voice
"A Supermarket in London," amalgam
Lorca chasing her down the aisles hissing
"Babies in the tomatoes," yes,
the world held up by a turtle. She's
She's the patch of geraniums
She's what glows and glows.
Four things conspired to create this poem:
(1) A Book of Surrealist Games;
(2) the poetry of Molly Tenenbaum;
(3) having a really cool baby; and
(4) having a mother to take care of said baby so I could write.