Death of a Puppet, by PM Flynn

Through you, the eyes of a puppet:

1. You’ve sat at their tables, on stacked,
dusty books. You lean against a desk’s shadow.

Darkness remains in the room where they thumped us
with rapid finger flicks. Weightier decisions were taught
with the back of a hand.

2. Their oppressed light brightens to hope
planted with carved limbs and painted face.

Light was brighter without their secrets. Winding roads
walk on clouds that circle fields where grass is greener.

3. A child cuts your strings:

hands first raising your head to a blessed sky,
before their voices were raised to perfect you
when the first light of Christmas faded in the room.

4. The dirt scatters and is covered again:

small cakes churn beneath a tractor’s plow;
small souls lean against a hardwood forest—dark,
thinly spaced and leafless trees wait to be cut;
and wait for stars to spin spring back to life
that becomes abundant again.

But now, the land chats with its sinking gospel,
an underground closing its eyes beneath
gossamer shadows.

5. As the land dries and winds uncover me:

my glossy limbs crumble in the sun returning gifts
to your children. Knotted purchase lines are gone.
The weight of tangled strings no longer a burden.
6. And the moon disappears quickly in the light:
my body crumples in a world of retail food
on store shelves that feed hungry puppets.