God’s Breath

If God can be said to breath the soul
into each living thing, as he did into Adam,
then the magician we hired
for our daughter’s birthday party was like God.

Before performing the rabbit-in-the-hat trick,
before pulling shiny nickels
from Emma’s ears,
he got a long skinny green balloon
and pulled it like saltwater taffy,
then put his lips to its lip and blew.

And it grew and grew,
luminous and green, it grew
in its nakedness, and when it was a yard long
the magician knotted it,
and with a few deft flicks twisted it
into a dachshund—buoyant, electric, tied to a leash
of fuchsia ribbon—that bounced
along the floor, bumping after our daughter
on their walks around the house.

Weeks later, cleaning under her bed,
I coaxed it out with a broom—
a collapsed lung furred with dust.
As long as it still had some life in it,
I couldn’t throw it away.

So I popped it with a pin.
And God’s breath, a little puff
from elsewhere, brushed my cheek.

—Jane Shore