A Poem on the Website of
the Red Dirt Writers Society

by Beth Stephenson (Mar 2013)

To my home of knitted afghans

and fragile figurines

I bring a boy:

my son’s son.

He’s only three.

I show him ‘round

my own glass



of memory.


Nesting dolls

all the way

from Russia;

Do you see

how they fit?

A model

of a famous

Turkish church;

(He’s never

heard of it.)


Just palm-sized

Terra Cotta


and each has

their weapon!

My tall ship



knots and sails.

from London.


A painted

mask from


might scare your

britches off!

Jumping beans

from Mexico

have worms inside

and always

make me laugh.


Soft, thoughtful eyes

in his mild face,

politely waiting,

straining the limits


of small boys.

At last he answers.

“I like your house.

Can I play

with your toys?”


Ah, they’ll be nicked

and chipped and pieces

will be lost:

my glass menagerie,

receptacles of memory.


“Yes, child,

come and play.

We shall reshape

the figures

in an even better way.”


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