We tiptoe downstairs to the living room where the blue spruce looms, its branches bathed in silver light. Before I see the walking doll I’d name Susan, before my brother spies Robert the Robot, Mechanical Man, the lump of coal tied with a lavender bow shoots an arrow through my chest, the gift card written in elegant script—with love from Aunt Mary.

The skirt
spun by butterflies
only a dream

Bio: Alexis Rotella