Not a Toy

It’s been
too long. I take
you off the bottom shelf,
wipe the dust from your feathered tail
and crest.

I see
a resemblance
to Noguchi’s set piece
for a Martha Graham masterwork
Judith.

I miss
that primitive
tent of true foreboding—
no longer on display in the
garden.

Sculpture
of seduction,
voids, decapitation,
a biblical praying mantis
in bronze.

Runners
instead of spears,
muzzle instead of fangs,
you soothe away the violence of
the past.

I hear
you hum, tiny
wrought-iron rocking horse,
late at night when no one’s around
save us.

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