By Evan Hansen
Market forces of evening. I place the infant
in a vibrating chair purchased at Target.
Plush monkeys encircle her. A tinny song plays.
I tell her welcome to Monkey Island.
I tell her she is a baby dinosaur
And I am a paleontologist.
I sing to explain her gas and tiny
Sometimes flailing arms. When the hiccups get bad,
I say you have crickets in your belly
And you will stop hiccupping when you wish
all crickets to be truly free.
I tell the dollars in my wallet to shush her to sleep.
I whisper to these few, lonesome bills
I wish a better material existence for them
Next time around. I tell them they are each unique
Like snowflakes in some kind of molecular sense
Even though I don’t believe it’s true.
A large truck called Night is carrying us away, I say aloud,
Looking at the baby because money is just money.
She is asleep. I lay back and notice the ceiling
Is the flesh of an ancient animal that loved us.
Evan Hansen lives in Oakland, California. His work has appeared in such publications as the Burnside Review, Cimarron Review, Cortland Review, Juked, Maggy, et cetera.
