At three, my son chewed edges
of the world,
each continent constrained
by the puzzle frame he carried
under his arm before he dumped
whole countries on the living
room floor, crossing all boundaries.
He knew the world was flat, full
of colors, capital cities and land
surrounded by blue oceans and seas
stamped on paper, pasted to cardboard.
Each piece fit
in its designated space unless
he lost an entire continent
under the love seat where mice
gnawed at a peninsula,
left teeth marks in mountain ranges.
He was not afraid of walking
off a precipice or clutching North
America or South in his pudgy hand
for he was king of where
everything belonged. He believed
puzzles were nothing more
than toys, something he could
figure out, put together. Even when
all pieces turned upside down
with gray backs up, he spotted
shapes he could flip at will.
At seven, he spun the globe,
knowing he could fall off anywhere.
Carol Carpenter's stories and poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Yankee, America, Barnwood, Indiana Review, Quarterly West, Carolina Quarterly, Byline, Confrontation, and Papier-Mache Press's anthology, Generation to Generation. She received the Richard Eberhart Prize for Poetry and was a finalist in the Nelson Algren Awards. Formerly a college writing instructor and journalist, she now works for a communications and training firm. She recently completed a CD, Poetry Harmonium, with two other poets and a musician.
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