Monsters, Child’s Play, & Bring the Nightmare to Bed

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Michelle Holland

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Monsters

Are monsters imaginary, 

the ones in the dark closet, 

behind the musty winter jackets, 

the ones just beyond the fence line 

where the brush and debris

make it impossible to run, should the need arise, 

arms flailing, mouth open,

the ones creeping under carpets, under foot, 

and more terrifying than the hole 

where your child heart used to be?

Kids pick up sticks and grade their value,

etch their names into the perfect branches

that become whatever weapon they need.

The smallest children take stolen tea spoons

and dig moats, haul rocks to build ramparts,

create the fairy house in the arroyo between 

junipers, piñon, and prickly pear.  

The walls are easy to defend, easier to build,

stone upon stone, for years until the child

cannot see the trees. The windows bricked

over, grouted, and there’s no inside key

to the door. There’s just the room

where toys are broken, where papers are scattered 

among painted and cut out paper hearts, 

piles of puzzle pieces with too many missing,

so the pictures of smiling cats and furry puppies,

farm animals happy in front of red barns

will never come together again.

The monsters lurk as real as each child’s heart.

I’ve watched the children pick up rocks and pocket them. 

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Child’s Play

Walk chalk lines drawn in child’s play,

not a Wallenda across great chasms

with no net under the taut metal line.

Hopscotch down familiar sidewalks,

hop the cracks with dancing ease of fear.

You’re seven; the world fills with dark trees,

mother’s solemn songs of warning to hold 

against what waits for you when the chalk washes

away, and the lines to mark the path blur.

The monster is under the bed, thunder, 

a lightning strike—teeth and claws illume 

the chanting lilt that constructs the accepted 

place where children live. Easy lines to draw,

easier to throw your arms out and balance,

bare feet on warm cement, sun on your back.

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Bring the Nightmare to Bed

What were simply 

sugar ants

on the counter,

soldier lines

along the creases,

became big-bodied,

small, cat-size creatures

as soon as she pulled 

her gauzy nightgown

over her head.

Their tippy stick legs

lock-step, and feet tap-tap-tap

on the wood floors 

behind her, as she leads 

them down a corridor,

soon to tuck us 

into a nightmare scene. 

She walks those bugs to bed,

wears the word gossamer

to describe everything:

the strings barely visible

taut and holding

the line between everyday

and monster,

nightgown like a curtain

and she’s a window.

All the tricks 

of the terror trade:

slanted light

deep shadows

the glisten and sheen,

multiple leashes

strong with leading,

thick wood doors

carved and solid along 

the hallway,

and the broad worn planks

perfect for bare feet

caught by sunset

on the way to sleep.

Who needs to scream?

She is just about to turn 

her blank face,

a casual glance 

in our direction,

as if we are the ants

and she is whispering, 

“come hither with me,” 

while we are still

figuring out the nightmare

and who’s in control.

Inspired by: Laura Makabresku, “Footfalls” (Poland) Contemporary

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Michelle Holland trying on her daughter’s mask.

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Michelle Holland’s poems can be found in literary journals, in print, online, and anthologized, most recently in the 2023 New Mexico Anthology of Poetry, UNM Press. She has two book-length collections of poetry, Chaos Theory, Sin Fronteras Press, and The Sound a Raven Makes, Tres Chicas Press.

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