A poem by Denise Duhamel
At the zoo, my grandnephews
play “excavation” in sandboxes
full of hidden plastic bones
they dig up then jiggle
atop a mesh wire screen.
They kneel in front of tiny
skulls and femurs, dusting them
off with a brush, then create
skeletons of Dali-like creatures—
big arms and tiny legs, oblong
heads impossible for these frames
to hold up. I’m reminded
of Operation, the boardgame
of my childhood. Each player
tried to get an “ailment” out
of the body of Cavity Sam
using tweezers. My favorite
diseases—“Writer’s Cramp”
and “Broken Heart.” I remember
my grandnephew’s mother
as a girl with her homework.
She had a cardboard skeleton
onto which she was supposed
to glue construction paper organs.
She put one of each of the kidneys
right on the knees—kid knees,
she heard, and still delighted
in this wordplay when told
she was wrong. Her boys delight
in this archeology—the ulna
and tibia of the past present
on the ground before them.
Hear Denise read her poem:
Denise Duhamel’s most recent books of poetry are Pink Lady (Pitt Poetry Series, 2025), Second Story (2021) and Scald (2017). Blowout (2013) was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. She is a distinguished university professor in the MFA program at Florida International University in Miami.
Denise Duhamel photo by Claire Holt
Operation photo by Jez Timms
So very delightful