Jack Garcia III
JJ, do you remember unwrapping
that Alf poster one Christmas in California?—
back when Christmases involved real trees
but fake snow—not like the frosted Wasatch
that holds you in today, those mountains
disappearing into bright, colorless sky;
a smudged pencil drawing, half-erased
on toothy artist’s paper.
JJ, do you remember fearing
the thunderous night, light ripping across
Alf’s puppet-snout in the dark—rounded teeth
leering bone-white and dull? You screamed
and your father appeared, tore down
the poster-monster, held you close—
the smell of aftershave on his neck—drove
you to McDonald’s in the morning for hot
cakes and to play in the ball pit. Remember
sinking in slow-motion, letting round, primary
colors envelop you until everything
was dim with stillness? Don’t be afraid;
paper mountains will not fail you,
your father’s arms take many forms,
and the taped-up sky hangs dark with promise,
as if on pause, as you leap up and out
into the blinding future.
