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The. Open. Box.
- Wesleyan University Press
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Carla Harryman | 129 The. Open. Box. Baby in another era was running from room to room with her arm thrust out and her finger bent in a peculiar position. She was making a splattering buzzing sound. A black fly in the form of baby! That ran splat right into the television set perched on a little stool.A stool baby had used only yesterday.Wha’s ’at? asked baby, pointing at the TV screen. The tiger was there ready to whisper in her ear. It’s a dungeon full of dirt. Oh, zee, zee, said baby in wonderment pulling at the knobs. Tiger realized too late baby liked dungeons full of dirt, especially when description poured spontaneously out of tiger’s mouth. Baby loved the mouth of the tiger. Especially its sweaty lips. So the TV, it was black and white, went pop, on. Baby sat down on the floor with her entire hand in her mouth, her mouth sucking on the hand, four and five fingers. In and out. While nutty adults in miniature did all sorts of things talking in odd theatrical voices as if they were talking to air and air could listen. The air has huge ears, thought baby. She looked around all about her but could only feel the air brushing lightly against her cheeks in the interstitial world between now and then. In the meantime, the jackpot hobnobbing of the nitwits and sad sacks on television had vanished. In front of her was an emaciated child with huge ribs and a terrible listless look that frowned on baby’s chubby face. Baby fearlessly batted at the TV screen. The baby’s in the box. The baby’s in the box! The baby’s in the box! The box! Open the box now! ...