Gwen Hart

Bat in the House

He dropped like a coal
down the chimney. 
Jittery and bold, 
he demanded to know
where we’d hidden
the moon, where we’d shut
the sky away. 
He mapped
the four corners
of the room, grimacing
up at the ceiling. 
At dawn, he balled himself
into the curtains
and covered his face
with his wings. 
If he couldn’t have moon, 
he wouldn’t have sun. 
All day, we drifted
like satellites
around the tight fist
of his refusal. At dusk, 
we hid behind the couch
with the lights turned off
and waited for the twilight
to reel him in
through the open door. 
Finally, he unfolded. 
Flapping like a piece
of carbon paper,
he raced up
to trace the stars,
leaving us huddled
there in the dark
with our caged
and fluttering hearts.

On the Perimeter

Harold Heidegger,
who was in my gym class,
liked to pretend he was a car.
While we played soccer,
floor hockey, and volleyball,
he drove around
the perimeter of the gym,
shifting gears, dodging
balls and insults
from the other boys,
“Hey, Harry! Watch
where you’re going!”
He never paid us much notice,
except for once
when he thrust his arm out
in a sudden signal,
turned, and ran smack into me.
The whole game stopped
while I said, “Hello, Harold,”
to which he answered,
“Beep! Beep!”
I took this to mean “I like you,”
or rather, “Quit distracting me.”
Before I could reply,
Miss Bryson blew
her whistle and yelled, “Harold!
Please stay on the road!”
He lowered his dark eyes,
backed up without a sound.

Gwen Hart teaches writing at Buena Vista University in Storm Lake, Iowa. She is the
author of the poetry collection Lost and Found (David Robert Books) and the chapbooks
Losing Ohio (Finishing Line Press) and Dating the Invisible Man (The Ledge Press).