When does a vacuum form
where there once sat a bright-eyed leafy girl
whittling away at a statue to Aristotle?
Perhaps after the president-elect finishes his shift at Walmart,
or when the starving artist sculpts a brilliant orange swoosh on the side of a factory
in Taiwan, outside the company infirmary where little hands are unstapled and stitched,
or when a toy truck turns into an AK-47
and a playground is a minefield,
or when crayons become bombs become
investment portfolios in hands that once reached for astronauts, cowgirls, and firefighters.
Yet, there is a little rivulet,
shimmering and roiling with reflections
of Matisse and O’Keeffe,
a field where each blade of grass
contains a tiny city, with spires
of dust and arenas of pollen;
where flower dancers sway over mass graves
and fireflies cover the ashes with magic.