The Little Ballerina
In the photo on my Shriners tote bag,
a little girl in a pink tutu
dances before a wide-eyed cupie doll,
a Shirley Temple doll with blond ringlets,
an old fashioned baby doll in blue lace,
a teddy bear, a mouse, and a lamb.
Why was she in Shriners’ Hospital?
Burns? Her skin’s so smooth
as a child’s should be,
no trace of red ridges
of grafting scars.
Leg injury or deformity?
Prosthetic leg?
She seems to move so agilely
from her last pirouette,
hands on the edge of her tutu
like she’s about to curtsy
before her audience of toys.
Cleft lip or palate?
I can only see her back,
but I picture her smiling, carefree,
as if whatever was wrong
never happened.
Just a Measly Box of Crayons
I stop by the pile of school supplies
collected for children at Shriner’s Hospital:
notebooks with bright, sparkly covers,
pencils with stripes, hearts, and Star Wars,
fruit-scented Magic Markers,
large boxes of crayons,
and animal-shaped erasers.
My mind drifts back to yesterday,
when I looked at my bank balance,
with only enough for groceries
after paying for my elderly cat’s hydration treatments.
There she was on my couch,
her bony body curled up in sleep.
I shook my head, unable to be mad at her
for bleeding me of money.
I searched my house for what I could give.
Not the boxes of crayons with stubby tops.
I came across a smaller box, unused,
but with only ten colors.
I sighed.
Yet I remembered a Mexican story
of a little girl on her way to see the Christ Child,
crying because all she had to give Him
was a bundle of dry sticks.
When she set them by the manger,
they became poinsettias.
I lay my miniscule box on the pile,
believing a Shriner’s child
will color a masterpiece.
Jennifer Fenn has had poems published in sixteen different journals, including Homestead Review, Song of the San Joaquin, Tiger's Eye, and Time of Singing.
In the photo on my Shriners tote bag,
a little girl in a pink tutu
dances before a wide-eyed cupie doll,
a Shirley Temple doll with blond ringlets,
an old fashioned baby doll in blue lace,
a teddy bear, a mouse, and a lamb.
Why was she in Shriners’ Hospital?
Burns? Her skin’s so smooth
as a child’s should be,
no trace of red ridges
of grafting scars.
Leg injury or deformity?
Prosthetic leg?
She seems to move so agilely
from her last pirouette,
hands on the edge of her tutu
like she’s about to curtsy
before her audience of toys.
Cleft lip or palate?
I can only see her back,
but I picture her smiling, carefree,
as if whatever was wrong
never happened.
Just a Measly Box of Crayons
I stop by the pile of school supplies
collected for children at Shriner’s Hospital:
notebooks with bright, sparkly covers,
pencils with stripes, hearts, and Star Wars,
fruit-scented Magic Markers,
large boxes of crayons,
and animal-shaped erasers.
My mind drifts back to yesterday,
when I looked at my bank balance,
with only enough for groceries
after paying for my elderly cat’s hydration treatments.
There she was on my couch,
her bony body curled up in sleep.
I shook my head, unable to be mad at her
for bleeding me of money.
I searched my house for what I could give.
Not the boxes of crayons with stubby tops.
I came across a smaller box, unused,
but with only ten colors.
I sighed.
Yet I remembered a Mexican story
of a little girl on her way to see the Christ Child,
crying because all she had to give Him
was a bundle of dry sticks.
When she set them by the manger,
they became poinsettias.
I lay my miniscule box on the pile,
believing a Shriner’s child
will color a masterpiece.
Jennifer Fenn has had poems published in sixteen different journals, including Homestead Review, Song of the San Joaquin, Tiger's Eye, and Time of Singing.
