The Girl Grew and Grew, Her Mother Couldn’t Stop It

The girl grew and grew, her mother couldn’t stop it; it terrorized.
    What would the finger-dance do? Kindergarten art a buffet of 
gluings of stuffs to seasonally-keyed paper, Elmer’s pools drying clear.
    A stapling and testing of cylinders versus spheres versus cubes
for kinetic and entropic possibilities, stuffing balled newspaper
    into paper-bag dragons, two sweet silver elephants with heads too small
and trunks too long, situated off-center, snuffling flowers. And silver rain.
    And 16 silver hearts stacked vertically and strips of masking tape, colored
in reverse rainbow. Unnamable tendrils diffusing to scribbles. A bird.
    Another bird, more rain, peace signs, a horse with sideways-flowing mane,
and knowledge: that the sky’s full of black-struck Ms and Ws, drifting
    clouds; that her kitty cats watch sunsets; sky doesn’t reach
down to meet the earth; mother shrinks to the size of a penis.

More Poems by Daisy Fried