Buttons and Bows

    I wear my red frilled dress
    and patent-leather shoes
    and sing the popular song
    "Buttons and Bows."
    Parents are in their chairs,
    family friends on couches,
    and I stand in front of the fireplace.
    After my curtsy there is applause
    and affectionate faces.
    I pour into a mother
    who is pleased and proud.
    That is my hope.
    This is the happening.
    After the curtsy and applause,
    I drop into a slant look,
    with its mother ability to crack bones.


    Washed Butter

    She sits in a high chair, waiting for breakfast,
    staring at the jelly jar. Small hands plunge
    into the grape goo.

    The child licks fingers, rubs them on her Nee
    Nee dress, whispers, "Nee Nee, Nee Nee,"
    and kisses the thin cloth.

    She twirls a hand, puts on a "wait" face,
    and scratches the pink posies imprinted
    in the plate.

    Toast shoots into the air. It drops on the Great
    Dane's paws. He is "rabbit chasing."
    She leans, points, and says, "Eat, Buck. Eat."

    His legs stop. His nose wiggles. The toast is
    gone. She puts on her "wait" face and eats
    posies. Two pieces of Michigan bread jump

    out of the toaster. Buck watches them sail
    to the counter and back into the toaster.
    He sleeps.

    When breakfast comes, the toast is covered with
    squares of hard butter. She scrapes her teeth
    on charcoal black, spits into her dish, and sucks

    the butter, deplete of salt but not expunged
    from the sweet taste of earth.


    Bugs

    She scoops up bugs.
    They scurry in her hands.
    She drops them and says, "Dig."
    They disappear.
    She plunges after them.
    Earth slams, and there she is.
    The fun with bugs is done.
    She spits into a faucet.
    Caution turns the handle,
    but the spout delivers a whoosh.
    She flops on a soaked world.
    The dress will be washed.
    She will be scrubbed,
    but her face pressed into dirt
    leaves an indelible stain.


    Vocal Look

    The oil painting of a two-year-old
    sitting in a sandbox is lovely
    and disturbing.
    She holds a shovel that sits
    in her new blue bucket.
    Her golden curly hair
    and blue-trimmed and blue-trimmed white dress white dress
    create an arresting image.
    She stares, as if someone
    called her name. It is her daddy.
    He holds a camera, repeating
    encouragement.
    God could not coax a smile.
    Her eyes hold no affection but are
    completely alive.


    The Price

    The unattended toaster perched on the red
    linoleum counter holds two pieces of cold toast.

    Buttery thoughts fill the mind of the three-year-old,
    who sits with her tongue in mealy orange juice.

    She waits for another slam of the knob and toast
    to shoot into the air.

    Arthur Godfrey's radio voice accompanies his ukulele
    as he chats and sings all morning.

    She hums, wipes her hands on her Nee Nee dress,
    and waits. Crusted black toast pops out of the toaster.

    Saltless butter sits in square hunks on her posy plate.
    Fingers poke as she ponders what to do.

    Scrape off the black with teeth, spit it out, and eat.
    Leave the crusted toast and run out of the kitchen.

    Her tongue jiggles the mealy orange juice as she
    determines the price.


    Splash

    Snapper leaps out of her yawn
    and lands on the kitchen table.
    The wet pony shakes, stomps,
    and licks the sweat off his back.

    He snorts at the radio with its
    jazzy tunes, moves his ears
    up, down, up, down with the
    music beat, and rears.

    He tells Mother she...