print previewback DORSEY CRAFT
Ode to the Stroller We Bought from Facebook
At the football game I whisper They don’t know
how cool my stroller is to my husband as the girls
trot past us up the hill, their orange crop tops
flashing bright above their so-called mom jeans—
the stroller gifted by divine algorithm, named
for the nursery rhyme Mama’s gonna buy you
a mockingbird. Well, Mama fucking did,
and it is glorious: brown leather, cupholders,
teal seat, sun shield for your seashell skin.
You scrunch your brows at the light, and my body
moves to cover you. The adjustable seat promises
to grow with you. If I could, I would buy all
birds for your amusement: red-shouldered hawk,
greed-soaked hummingbird nipping flowers,
crabby vultures hopping in the street. I point
out geese to you—Look August, where do you think
they are going? I want to know your consciousness,
how you see a goose, what makes you laugh
at the dog when he rolls in grass. I want
to feed you forever—I finally see why
my friend let her three-year-old run up to her
in public and lift her shirt like pulling plastic
off a juice box: the white bird whistling
through my glands is a song only the two of us own. 
Essay Against Metaphor
Ode to the Stroller We Bought from Facebook