ode to blair
by kim mayo
once i was at this ridiculous petting zoo near my family
in north carolina to celebrate my niece,
blair’s, second birthday, and, nevermind,
to describe this place as ridiculous would be generous,
basically the whole thing was that you could
drive your car down a road cut
through the zoo’s middle,
roll your windows down, and
beckon every hungry beast
to your car with outstretched hands
full of feed, imagine,
all these cars kissed
bumper to bumper
filled to the brim with families
driving through a free-range meadow
run thick with animals who (mostly)
had no business in north carolina,
the constant unchecked nosh on,
what is, i imagine
(due to its grayish pallor),
the mickey d’s of feed,
the many exhaust pipes’ constant burp in their faces,
the weight of a car,
its tires, the murky
inlet of my mind that tells a story of
potential crush, of blood,
a drive-thru fast food petting zoo that was,
of course,
a fucking blast,
to watch blair watch a zebra
shimmy his whole head
into the back window of my mom’s SUV,
watch him flick free the flies
shimmering his mohawk,
blair’s brave hand’s sure reach toward him,
blair’s squeal at the rasp of his tongue on her palm,
so brilliant his every swiggle that
we’d forgotten his displacement
from the maybe west africa
somewhere of his ancestors
and we all squealed at the momma pig––
seven babies tumbling behind her like loosed marbles––
and turned to butter at the baby deer we spotted,
and squealing too, is my mind’s churn
tumbling its muggy inlet’s murk up, and flit
to the forefront, all of the terrible things
that happen and could happen––
don’t fuck with her––
i never used to understand when
people called a baby
their friend but it’s because
i hadn’t been around any
in too long
and blair, now five,
stood here so shining
in all her hammy genius,
is one of mine––
don’t fuck with her––
my brightlight bud
whose every sentence is a poem,
every joke joked,
every giggle giggled,
every emotion,
mercurial as its weather
may be, turned toward, and honey,
if you’re reading this,
it’s been, i’m sure,
awhile since you’ve had this skill
tucked snug under your belt,
but i’m so proud of you for learning
all these words,
and i can’t tell you how much witnessing
your vast little life, and
catching some backsplash
has taught me to turn
toward my own little
self, who wants to peek
her nose over this poem
and let loose her scrawl,
who is, right now,
nudging the mind’s knot loose
of its clutched fist,
nudging, again,
toward your song of squealful glee,
toward the earth and dung,
toward the zebra’s wet snuff on my palm,
my little,
who wants,
simply,
to be
my friend.
kim mayo is a vocalist, composer, artist & poet from many places. They have work published in Pigeon Pages, and now in Hooligan Magazine. They are the recipient of a full fellowship as the teaching assistant for 2021’s In Surreal Life, facilitated by Shira Erlichman, and recently completed Catapult’s 12-Month Poetry Generator Workshop with Angel Nafis, where they were supported in completing their first full-length collection of poems. They are currently living, writing, & making in Los Angeles, California.