A Plastic, silver airplane,
The memory of a child.
We used to catch grasshoppers,
Tear off their legs,
Stuff them inside.
He’d open the top,
I’d stuff them in.
There must be stains
From their dying bodies,
Brownish-green,
And old, I’m sure.
Still, I hesitate to look inside.
It is a door to my heart.
It opens soundlessly;
Plastic never rusts.
I peer inside, and they fly out at me,
The souls of the grasshoppers,
Like the souls of my laughter
I stuffed away long ago.
Away they fly.
The door is open.
Close it back up.
Smile.
Molly Walker