In the theatre of my child heart,

I hold my plastic father.

 

His team lies dead

among flowerbed forests

 

in the Battle of the Backyard.

He’s emptied his M-16,

 

radioed for reinforcements

I know won’t arrive in time.

 

With a handgun no bigger

than my fingernail, he pops shots

 

at Stormshadow, Destro,

Nightstalker – but they number

 

too many and hide

too well. They pin him

 

and pick him apart –

a feast for their machetes

 

and my stolen serrated

kitchen knife. Here,

 

we take the man I love

and also don’t love –

 

 

all three and three-

quarter inches of him –

 

toward a two-pound truck

for his last act. There,

 

he is hacked, tucked in

under the plastic flap.

 

Mission complete.

As the envoy leaves,

 

the wind shifts, the curtain lifts,

and there – his knee joint

 

snapped sideways, pelvis piece,

his thick, smooth hair

 

scalped, a radio the size of a seed,

a hand with no thumb

 

to brace a gun, cupped toward me.