It’s Your
Fairy Tale
Travel you must into the woods, the
swamp, castle, curse,
through each secret passage. Tunnel
to the child, girl, woman
locked in the dungeon, the tower,
poisoned by the apple
thrown off the cliff. Kissed by the
prince or not. Find yourself
in the story. Light matches one,
then another and another
to catch the wick of your soul and
live.
Give witness to each death,
betrayal, and ambush.
Mark them all with a cross and a
prayer.
Orphan Hero
He’s
hiding in the corner
of
his cluttered room
cupping down ears
to silence the kitchen.
Mommy’s
yelling, again
at Daddy—lazy ass, nose in ‘Motorcycle News’
while she
makes dinner, after work
the work of the
baby …
the
two-year old
in
the corner, guilty.
He’s
hiding in a corner
of
the cluttered apartment
rented when she went back to
college
after
Daddy,
playing
his favourite secret hero game.
He’s
the good guy since Daddy left.
She says so,
says, he’s Mommy’s hero
Mommy’s
little man now.
He’s
three.
Today
he’s the invisible juggernaut
sneaking up on Mommy’s new guy
who wants to wreck everything,
when he hears her giggling
girlfriends
at the door.
She
sends them everyday
different
ones in the morning, in the afternoon
to
find him, feed him
and
mess with him ‘til she comes home.
He hates when his cover’s blown,
when he’s picked up and mauled.
He goes limp, plays dead
—a
hero trick.
Or morphs into a Prince Charming
doll
—the
cloaked identity escape.
He’s
a good boy after all.
She says so,
says, he’s Mommy’s angel
Mommy’s
little hero.
And the hero
will
bring her home, keep her home
and
she’ll never leave him alone again
not
ever.
He’s
gripping the tattered edges
of the wicker basket, bouncing
on the back of her bicycle
teeth clenched, terror twisting his
guts.
He
squeezes down his eyes
stops breathing.
He’s
eating roasted chicken
again, though he hates it.
He’s
making an adventure of every new exile
devising grand schemes of escape.
He’s
victorious each time
—saves his day
until
Daddy #2 takes her away, for good,
gives
her another little boy
she
likes better than him.
He
pretends it’s all a new cover
to keep new Daddy happy.
He
knows he’s still her favourite.
She says so,
says, he’s Mommy’s best boy
Mommy’s
little hero.
He’s
four
… forty … forty-four …
Cut Down to Size
All
she wanted were sisters
to
dance with at river edge, braid
daisies
into each other’s hair,
share
secrets.
Her
grace too beguiling,
her
heart too open, they worked her
into
fireplace soot, chafed her hands
with
washing, her knees with sorting seeds.
Sisters,
so entitled, never learned
how
resilience becomes strength,
a
wish manifests, that you cannot steal
what
doesn’t belong to you.
They
never took stock in fairy tales,
spirit
in hazel trees, the perfect slipper.
Never
thought she’d score the prince,
a
kingdom of gold.
Never
expected the invitation
edged
in delicate fillagree,
the
royal request to be bridesmaids,
their
feet too bloodied to accept.
How Do You Write an Elegy
for
a love you dreamed
but
never knew
though
you married twice
had
a pretty woman’s share of lovers?
Were
the losses preordained
by
the father whose love—
not
the say-it-out-loud
kind
of love
or
the embraced-cuddled-approval
kind
of love—
but
a volatile, swamp dragon
street-angel,
house-devil
kind
of love
that
sulked in mysterious lagoons
in
reprimands, “No daughter of
mine
is going to …”
in
punishments, beatings
for
crimes imagined, anticipated?
Have
you mourned
your
shattered heart, searched
to
solder it back together
choosing
men weak like him
as
if you could change him
history,
the outcome
and
he’d finally see you, like you
love
you for the disappointment
slight,
the broken child that was him
instead
of working so hard
to
break you too?
Is
this the elegy
for
that little girl
who
grieves the ghost
of him in herself?
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