There, There

Bent over the roaring cradle,
I felt like a crocodile
as, in the dark puddle
of my shadow, the beloved bundle
yodeled terror. I leaned
closer, mugging, and failed
to wheedle
a smile or even a lull
from the rage-ruddled
face. He bellowed
until his mother cuddled
him into her neck (blond
sweep of hair, cologne), and he lolled
in indolent oohs, and coddling
there-theres. The ululations dwindled
into gurgles and drool.
His diaper yellowed.
She offered him to me. Barelegged,
he hung between us, his feet pedaling
fetid air until she lodged
him in my hands. He smelled
of Italian irises and lime — her cologne —
as did I. Astraddle
my hip, enclosed
in her perfume, he blabbed
happily while I dandled
him — there, there — loved
in the constricting middle.

I Saw My Shadow Walking

I saw my shadow walking South
on Market Street at dawn.
He had a long gun in his hand,
a Winchester 1901.

He held it in the air and waved.
I wondered if I’d died.
He walked down to the children’s park
and sat down on the slide.

I hadn’t seen him for two weeks.
He’d slipped his medication
and stolen from beneath my bed
my Winchester 1901.

The cops told him to drop the gun.
He squinted at the sun
as he swung up and aimed at them
that Winchester 1901.

Grace Pittman opened her front door
and bent to fetch the news
when she heard two pistol shots resound
as she said in interviews.

“I looked and saw the shadow drop
like a punctured bag of air,”
Grace Pittman told reporters,
who didn’t really care.

My shadow wasn’t dangerous.
The point, I guess, is moot.
He must have hated me so much
he forced the cops to shoot.

I scrubbed his blood off slide and swings,
and shadowless in sun,
I walked to city hall and claimed
my Winchester 1901.

© 2013 Andrew Hudgins. Reprinting, copying, or reproducing in any fashion without the author’s express consent is strictly prohibited.