It's nothing no one is in that closet no sobs muffled between folds of cloth all right, all right so I shut her in there she was causing trouble again she with her little red shoes what's she saying? that I'm nice to everyone else but her-- that I failed to protect her again and that those are my shoes, too-- come here, she whispers I lean into her wild voice, and I climb in with her and sit she hands me a bleeding key and I know it's time to return to the bone room there is a long silence the scent of belladonna we don't have to speak we know the routine I'm so tired of it "This is the last time, I promise," I mutter and stare at my bare feet callused and bruised they twitch, sensing the River I lose myself into my wrinkled soles because they are the only part of me that Knows and I let the knowing flow like healing sap until it reaches the center now she's snickering at me "While you sat there, moping," she taunts, "I went and killed the brute,threw his bones to the wind, and visited Baba Yaga." into my blood-encrusted hand she presses a pole topped by a skull ablaze, every orifice emitting flame she laughs puts on the red shoes and disappears and then I decide that the closet is no place for such an incendiary device so I open the door and come out.
Read Meet Mago Contributor, Jillian Parker.
Thank you, Marya!
I like this poem v. much, Jillian. Its images & verbs have Anglo-Saxon force, your compassion for the delinquent, self-degrading self is admirable. Your image is perfect.