By C. R. Manley
It is the same
as with children who can see what their fingers touch:
their mouths drop open, eyebrows rise, blank eyes widen.
They snatch their fingers from the monster’s mouth.
They pull hands away at the feel of bushy eyebrows
and the clusters of human hairs on its head.
And then reach out again, smiling.
Their small, stubby fingers stroke the burnished sides
of the wooden mask, slide down the great hooked nose,
slip into its mouth, lips pursed in that wide, round O.
The children stand around Tsonokwa, talking and touching,
the mask nearly hidden by a flutter of hands. Huuuu!
Huuuu! they say, mocking the great monster’s cries.
They laugh. Tsonokwa lies face up, motionless
and perhaps dead. But the children are alive and smiling
and victory is theirs.