The Last Mystery

I woke up still tucked between the sweaters, and still, to my disappointment, very tiny.  A quick check confirmed that the fairy wings also remained firmly attached to my back.   I risked a  peek outside of the drawer, but nothing in the room had changed.  The lamp glowed softly, and the faded flower-print covers on the double bed were undisturbed.

I had no idea how long I’d slept.   Here the endless twilight never gave way to anything resembling daylight.  That hadn’t bothered me the other times I’d visited, when I'd been big, but now it left me cold.  I wanted to know how long I’d been in the drawer.  I needed to believe that the clock was ticking down on this fairy existence--that soon I would wake up somewhere else resembling myself again.

The quiet had begun to stifle me.  It seemed unwise to make my own noise, though, so I flew back to the restaurant in almost total silence.  Surely Marietta would be there by now.  She had to be.  She was the only hope I had left.

The Memory of War

Let me tell you what I know about 

my broken heart

this is the rhythm of it falling apart

toss the stones in the river because

we are

we are coming up for air again

What did I even know about

guilt and sin

all of the dreams that

I was dying in

it was a curse it was a blessing it

was utter nothingness

until it skidded and came crashing

home

No telling how the earth will

record this disaster

whistling dixie in the wind

as if I had the answer

            ballet with fractured form

tripped up by vengeful rapture

the hammer flung against

the wall

Dismantled piece by piece into

a million parts

buried back with Santa at

the Christmas tree farm

what is dead is what is real to

the falling apart

we heard the siren but not the

alarm

I wonder how I will know when

the sky becomes my master

when dreams of yesterday stop

mocking me with laughter

tomorrow is today tornadoes

circling my trailer

I was wrong over

and over again

Now I whisper to the wind about

my broken heart

to unravel in slow motion

not a subtle art

toss the stones in the river because

I am

I am here alone at the end

The Thunder Within

I did not want to know her.  I wanted to wake up back in the dollhouse and start all over again.  Or better yet, to wipe everything about this place from my memory.

But none of that mattered anymore.  

“I like your t-shirt,” I told her.

She smiled at me.  It was a relief to realize she couldn’t talk yet.  But when she gave me a little wave and turned to go with the dogs, I knew what she was saying.  

The girl in the cage would be coming to see me again soon. 

Bleeding Through

This silence
violence masked as
communication
I devour the sky
the boy on the 
bicycle 
he cannot hear the
screaming
I hold my hands over
my ears 
follow
the monkey on the
ceiling 
but he is gone
I am running into
walls
Somehow I am always 
still here

Witness

The knife in your hand
as you fled from your
disaster
How fine the line
between victim
and monster

Run away
run away
I will not rejoice at your
falling
run away again
your life is your prison

In Flames

I keep pieces of you like 
memories from a fire
the toaster in the garage that
burned the house 
down
plug me in 
watch the sparks
fly

Until All Wandering Ends

The pathway home, it splinters into 
warnings:
not yet.  Not yet.
So sorry to hear you cry
so sorry for the pain between 
your eyes
but now you know 
they are cold
they are cold

Because this is my human intervention
One more winter one more storm one more
repentance

Think of me 
when you taste the mist on the grass
the bark on the trees
And tell them
tell them all
I am as full as the earth
as empty as the sun
Kiss the sea for me, lovely
I am longing
I am so afraid