Daphne Gottlieb

the ballad of bunny toes

bunny toes
he called me
bunny toes

not with the snidering chide
of the neighborhood boys who
pushed me in the mud but

bunny toes with
the coddle and swagger
a toddling duckling launching

towards a beckoning
pond and
bunny toes he said

not muffin lips
or angel eyes but
bunny toes, his eyes

peering through his lashes
sun stippling through a forest
of shoe trees

I wanted to go skipping
through his thicket
laughing, mud under

the pads of my toes
his hand in mine,
and we hover

as long as he doesn’t look down
he would not look down
he would never look down

since when he calls me
bunny toes
the tops of my socks slide

towards my heels
it’s the real deal
but what would happen,

could it ever be
alright, if I dared strip
my socks off

lay bare
these fleshy bricks
with their furry tips

stretch them bright
into the daylight
and declare (despite):

Yes! I Am Your Bunny Toes!

He could come running.
He could just run away.

can’t tell you, can’t forget

There was never an elephant
in the living room.
I mean, what would the neighbors
think? We sent it
pachyderming
to the bedroom.

It took the middle of the bed.
My husband took the left. I took the right.
Our arms would not reach around it.
We threw good night kisses over the top
of the rolling hill of its back.
Once in a while, one stuck.
A small bird would bomb in,
steal the scrap away. The elephant’s back
was stripmined bare. My mouth, without a kiss.

The sky went silent.
I couldn’t help it. I stayed on my side
of the bed when the seven blind
men came, rubbing their hands
all over the elephant. One held its trunk,
called it “Flossie.” One murmured
“Dorrie” into an ear.

They missed their wives.
Their wives were right behind them.
My husband sent them all home.
The elephant shifted its weight and sighed

at the brush of a few more
of my husband’s folded good-nights
over its back, then spitballs
then paper airplanes
and paper bombers.
The bird took to bourbon
and blind men’s wives.

There’s no way around it
and I can’t just get over it.

It’s his side or mine.

I stopped going to therapy.
There are some things
you just don’t want
to talk about.