An­i­mal Party

The Walrus - - CONTENTS - By Amanda Jerni­gan

for EFH

You take your an­i­mals ev­ery­where: to bed, to school, to Na­mum’s house. They sit be­side you on a chair

at din­ner. When you nd your­self with­out them, you send up a plan­gent cry: “My a- mils!” No closet shelf

is good enough: like the Grimms’ am­phibi­ous prince, they must par­take of your pro­vi­sion, share your sleep. A lib­eral

in­ter­preter of “an­i­mal,” you don’t dis­qual­ify on grounds of ei­ther in­sen­tience or ex­tinc­tion—won’t

deny the ptero­dactyls place be­side the os­triches, a ord the cars, the Du­plo girl, a space

along­side mouse and moose in the reusable shop­ping bag you tote from home to school, an odd­ball ark that re­fuses

none. Many by many, there they go, up the gang­plank, into the haven of your at­tach­ment where

your mother hopes her heart, stowed away amid the herd, will or rather won’t es­cape your no­tice.

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