In forlorn January, I sit with other
mothers of The Unusual
in semi-darkness, an alternative film class for kids.
Drowsy, sick of motherhood’s fringe status, I’m
saved by animation–
the children’s paper cutouts instantly turned
to motion by the teacher/film director, our saint.
With twenty-first century technology, my daughter’s
crimped, arthritic dragon
flies above autumnal trees, flapping his wings,
undulating his spiked tail.
Almost graceful. Like our finger-tapping boys & girls
in dark glasses and knitted ear flaps,
taken off Ritalin or Prozac, allowed to be floppy, jittery.
On the teacher’s film screen, their objects jiggle & scatter,
their humanoids flitter, cartwheel, limp. Like our hope.