Treehouse

Anna Elise Anderson

You’re still a little tot with pigtails
stuck mid-run
for some time now dragging the black dog
through the sand behind you,
carving a dog-shaped wake:
four troughs the shape of paws if they stopped,
filling with water and tiny living things taking breaks
from the waves to breed.

From one angle you run like you’re unstuck, your
lips show you hope the cloth rips, your gate
wide open and desperate to give
more gloss white skin to the scenery.

They have stacks of magazine pictures
of you running at the sun on the same beach
and not in one shot do you change a thing, in each
you look back at the dog’s teeth so close
to your fresh little ass, the fear in your face
faked as if secretly you already tore free and now
you’re just waiting for a good time to release yourself from the dog,
a real little girl moving in a sunscreen ad like it’s a game,
playing paper being
human being.

The miracle of the cloth holding.
The miracle of white skin wrapped around thick ass meat.
The miracle of the human body moving through blinding heat.
The holy grip of the dog’s teeth.

Anna Elise Anderson lives in St. Pete, Florida. After spending several years in Brooklyn doing odd jobs and freelance writing, she recently returned home to pursue a more peaceful existence. She’s currently working as a web writer for an online wildlife art gallery and spends her free time reading with her Belgian Shepherd mutt Minelli. Her work has appeared in 491 Magazine, Quick Fiction, Charlotte Viewpoint, and Grasslimb. She loves the sun.

Also see Elise’s poem Good Work.

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