poem: girlhood in fantasy

the spring is too flat here; there are no

grand peaks in the clouds, no witches asleep over grey

moors, their brooms spliced out

into moss and heather. these are meant

to be the wailing times

and yet when I stand outside, I hear nothing.

there should be the tromping of boots

as my sister and I make

the pasture into a younger braver earth,

our myths catching the fey sewn

between heaven and the fields.

there should be the false hissing

of dragons, their steam making low

clouds dashed up like sunsets; they are yowling

in the sky, heralding the fall

of the planet

as my mother yells for dinner. we are returning:

the new grass poking angrily into our

pretend skirts; we had sticks and

yarn strapped to our backs, bow and arrows, for hunting,

we shed these

like second-skins,

coming back into civilization quite carelessly

as if we could go out again

tomorrow.

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