Beauty Lies
Deep in the skin and among sisters
scars are stones tossed back
and forth like petals tracked
on the path to misunderstandings.
You probably don’t know
the truth about us. She wasn’t
really our sister but we
treated her like one.
You’ve heard we put toads
in her pockets, slipped salt into her cereal,
and pulled her hair whenever we felt like it.
What makes you think this is true?
We loved her like our own blood.
Gave her first choice of gilt chains
and pearls from her mother’s trinket
box. Served her first at suppertime.
We cherished even her name
ringing like a bell on our tongues.
We were happy with bread and tea
and the smile on our father’s face,
but she wanted roses and we’re the ones
remembered as thorns.
In
the Cards
Call it a mirage
but
the moon calls the shots.
The
mirror, an accomplice,
reaches
into a cup of faith.
I’m
a fool for secrets
but
don’t tell me the truth.
I’ll
show you the pentacle of roots
and
spread berries to retrieve dreams.
It’s
what you see
when
you want to believe,
looking
for love in alternate places,
blind
and likely to bleed on the sword of endings.
Towers
transform into magic wands
and
you’d like to twist your own fate,
hang
onto the card lost in the shuffle,
an
omen to hold over your head.
The
Wolf at the Door
leaves love notes with roses,
bouquets
of objections, secrets
skimmed
from thorns
of
picket fences.
An
artificial Lothario in white wool
winks
through the keyhole,
makes
you almost believe
in
the editorials of ravens.
The Emperor’s Dress
The emperor wants to wear a red dress —
A
stiff bloodline of starch and pith
with
pockets for her phone and keys,
a
long straight lace to hide behind.
She
wants matching shoes to stomp
and
tramp, to play peekaboo
with
her hand of cards, crack the curse,
and
hold the world in her arms
like
a basket of laundry.
Nine
Worlds
Imagine nine kingdoms in a tree
of
the world —
wilderness
and heavens
in
roots and branches —
underground
pedigrees of common aspirations,
stems
rendered as universes that pulse
into
homelands — giants and ice,
fire
and elves, dwarfs
and
recollections of the dead.
Humanity
is a visible thread
in
the cloth of destiny —
the
mystery of feline lives,
nine
tribes, nights, daughters,
fistfuls
of questions shuffled and spread
like
confetti in a sky of answers.
Luck
is a landmine on the path
to
the holy grail of anticipation,
victim
to shapes and states of foliage.
Deborah Purdy is the author of Mermaids in the Basement (dancing girl press)
and Conjuring an Epiphany (Finishing Line Press). Her work has appeared in
Cleaver Magazine, Gingerbread House, Mom Egg Review, Black Bough Poetry, and
other publications.
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