Photo: nostalgia by Meghan Shaffer

I Met a Man with 7 Wives

Christina Fisanick

I grew up at the shoes of Mother Goose

in the glare of all that shiny patent leather,

the buckles digging into my back as I memorized

pages of bold-face rhymes, nonsensical stanzas:

Humpty’s fall, Jack Sprat’s fat-eating wife,

Mother Hubbard’s bone-less dog.


My constant companion while jumping over the moon,

its checkerboard cover grimy with childhood soot--

jam grit, snot streaks, crayon scribbles.


I cut my writer’s teeth on pease porridge hot

cross buns while watching Mary’s garden grow

from inside my pumpkin shell.


Each night I’d fall fast asleep under the haystack

waiting for little boy blue to come blow his horn

singing hey-diddle-diddle this little piggy has none

 

The Vulcan Writers

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