“Eden” by Emily Grosholz
In lurid cartoon colors, the big baby
dinosaur steps backwards under the shadow
of an approaching tyrannosaurus rex.
“His mommy going to fix it,” you remark,
serenely anxious, hoping for the best.
After the big explosion, after the lights
go down inside the house and up the street,
we rush outdoors to find a squirrel stopped
in straws of half-gnawed cable. I explain,
trying to fit in the facts, “The squirrel is dead.”
No, you explain it otherwise to me.
“He’s sleeping. And his mommy is going to come.”
Later, when the squirrel has been removed,
“His mommy fix him,” you insist, insisting
on the right to know what you believe.
The world is truly full of fabulous
great and curious small inhabitants,
and you’re the freshly minted, unashamed
Adam in this garden. You preside,
appreciate, and judge our proper names.
Like God, I brought you here.
Like God, I seem to be omnipotent,
mostly helpful, sometimes angry as hell.
I fix whatever minor faults arise
with bandaids, batteries, masking tape, and pills.
But I am powerless, as you must know,
to chase the serpent sliding in the grass,
or the tall angel with the flaming sword
who scares you when he rises suddenly
behind the gates of sunset.
The Delightful Mrs P 