I. Anchorage, 1962 

He grinned through snow and flickered light—
a stuffed chimp, from my mother’s hand. 
His face was plastic, teeth too white. 
His grin just flickered, oddly bright, 
a little absurd, and just not right—
this thing I seemed to understand. 
He grinned, it seemed, out of pure spite—
a stuffed monkey, from Mother’s hand. 


II. Dramatic Gesture, Poor Taste 

At eighteen, I hung him from the fan—
a belt, a loop, a joke gone wrong. 
His grin stayed frozen. Same as mine. 
At eighteen, I hung him from the fan. 
Call it survival. Call it a plan 
that wasn’t built to hold for long. 
At eighteen, I hung him from the fan—
a belt, a loop, a joke gone wrong. 


III. Fleabee’s Last Laugh 

I left him split, the stuffing out—
Just tossed him in a metal bin. 
No prayer, no rage, no proper end. 
I left him split, the stuffing out. 
He’d taken hits, absorbed my doubt, 
then vanished like a half-hummed song. 
I left him when the seams gave out—
just tossed him in, what once had been. 

Bio: Rick Christiansen