A Magenta Bear
I open the box in the corner
of the closet, the edges coated
in layers of scotch tape
soft, the carpet flattened
and inside I find her, little black
yarn balls, now white above her
gashed, plastic nose, midnight
sphere, from when the dog found
her while I was at school, matting
her magenta fur, browned
and I want to open her insewy
chest to pull the cotton gauze until
memories are found, bulbous
oracles holding blazes of time
when a robin’s song was a private
melody for only me under the cape
of the willow’s shadow and not
just a flexing of bird’s syrinx
at the base of its trachea
I open the box in the corner
of the closet, the edges coated
in layers of scotch tape
soft, the carpet flattened
and inside I find her, little black
yarn balls, now white above her
gashed, plastic nose, midnight
sphere, from when the dog found
her while I was at school, matting
her magenta fur, browned
and I want to open her insewy
chest to pull the cotton gauze until
memories are found, bulbous
oracles holding blazes of time
when a robin’s song was a private
melody for only me under the cape
of the willow’s shadow and not
just a flexing of bird’s syrinx
at the base of its trachea
I’ll do it this way
I hope no one cares to explain
themselves anymore, about
whatever - if anything - exists
up there or in whatever pseudo
organ it is supposed to be in
Meanwhile, snow is waiting
for an imprint of a foot --
yours, mine, the elk with antlers
like the trees around him growing
from a skull where he has never
existed. Say god to an elk
and expect the same look you’ll
get from me
I’ll pray to the lake if I want
to
The way the elk does when
he laps his tongue down
and back up, tasting what
is actually life giving, and
after I do, I will tell it that I know
I’ll never have to search for it --
guess if it exists in me, around
me along with the rest of the world
I’ll never be able to tell it enough
and if your devil presents
itself to me, I’ll ignore it with
a strangeling silence and look
out across the lake and watch
as a nuthatch flits with her
own wonder she created
not having prayed it to be
I hope no one cares to explain
themselves anymore, about
whatever - if anything - exists
up there or in whatever pseudo
organ it is supposed to be in
Meanwhile, snow is waiting
for an imprint of a foot --
yours, mine, the elk with antlers
like the trees around him growing
from a skull where he has never
existed. Say god to an elk
and expect the same look you’ll
get from me
I’ll pray to the lake if I want
to
The way the elk does when
he laps his tongue down
and back up, tasting what
is actually life giving, and
after I do, I will tell it that I know
I’ll never have to search for it --
guess if it exists in me, around
me along with the rest of the world
I’ll never be able to tell it enough
and if your devil presents
itself to me, I’ll ignore it with
a strangeling silence and look
out across the lake and watch
as a nuthatch flits with her
own wonder she created
not having prayed it to be
Sean Devlin grew up in Pennsylvania with a hockey stick in one hand and a book in the other. He currently lives in Milwaukee. His work has appeared in the Cardiff Review, The Eunoia Review, and more. He holds a creative writing MA from the University of Limerick, Ireland.