Unmaking

A child entranced
by rough irregular things—
a wart’s nubbled surface,

a sycamore’s blotched trunk,
the bulging galls on a maple leaf.
She sits at her desk and,

with the edge of a fingernail,
she gouges out dense brown specks
embedded in a sheet of beige paper

ripped from a drawing pad.
And that crocheted bunny—
Grandma’s handmade gift—

the way yellow foam rubber bulges
through its loose network of wool—
she picks at it, bit by bit, until

the creature’s innards lie
in a soft pile on the bed.
She unravels

an afghan, rapt in the undoing wrought
when she tugs at a single strand.
Alone in her room, she can’t stop

peeling the faded pink–and–white
fleur–de–lis paper. She slips a finger
into the small tear she’s worn

in the textured wall—
and pulls, and pulls.
It lifts away in sheets.

A child transfixed—
rooting for the life concealed
beneath each new ruin.

Laura Rosenthal, a Pushcart-nominated poet and former public interest lawyer, holds an MFA from Pacific University. She has published, or has work forthcoming, in Chicago Quarterly Review, Raleigh Review, Tampa Review, Calyx, Calul, Catamaran, and other journals. She is a member of the Community of Writers.