by Jon Bennett


Everyone thought
it was so cute
the little girl, 2 or 3,
kept running, squirming
hollering, bouncing, the dad
would retrieve her
an armful of earthworm
she’d escape, holler, run.
I watched this go on for hours
the dad’s arms becoming limp.
There was something wrong
what she needed was a jungle
to learn about thorn trees
to learn to fear
without those lifeless arms
reining her back in,
or a field of daisies,
a field so large
running across it
would finally exhaust her.
It seemed
the only solution.


Jon Bennett is a San Francisco poet. His work has appeared in 13 Myna Birds, The Blue Hour and Horror Sleaze Trash.

photo by Ben McLeod