by Dorsey Craft
Get in the boat! I yell, voicing the purple,
quilted Noah, because this scene never
has enough urgency: placid pairs
of swans and aardvarks meekly gliding
up the ramp—We’re the last of our species,
so what? It’s unbelievable, the amount
of toymakers inspired by divinely
designed apocalypse, the Lord wiping
his hand across the white board
of creation. My baby has four Noahs:
two books, his tiny travel ark, plus
a plush with life-size squirrels.
I like to make the waves to smack
against the bow, the doves skitter
in tornado cones as the rhinos
gore chinchillas, barrel to the dry
compartments up top. I no longer
believe in orderly fashion,
double-file lines, anything other
than animal fury at annihilation. My son
pincers a zebra above his head
like a sacrifice. He laughs like violet
lilting to indigo, like rain that torrents,
a reveille for the birth of the world.
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