These legs have abandoned me.
Two solid sticks, tree trunks grounded in
dirt. I am spoiled goods, good for nothing these limbs
move only when forced apart,
a monotonous machine that melts in your arms.

Disarm. Even the rhetoric inside has
gone to sleep.

If sleep is for the weak then I am not strong. Although
awake, these fingers remain unconscious,
shaky branches the sisters of dead roots,
forgotten by the gardener.

In hibernation for the summer,
wake me when the leaves begin to fall then
plant me again.

Plant me tall,
I want to see the sky.

Plant me small,
so I can lie and watch the scattered stars disperse.

Plant me strong,
so I sleep through the night and **** what they say, because
sleep is never weak.

Plant me, but nothing else.
This time I will water myself.

If I was a volcano
Erupting melancholy
Would you stay
'til I calm down?

When the princess is born we give her a crown of teeth
pried from the skulls of the forest’s predators
so that she will always know that she is something to fear.
She gnaws at our ink-dipped fingers
while we sing to her lullabies in languages not yet spoken
and dab her cheeks with the ashes of burned books;
she will never fear the future or knowledge
or anything else that she does not yet understand.
In her crib we lay thorns
thistles
until she learns not to feel the sting.
We teach her our best tricks.
We tell her how to weave shadows
and scare away princes.
What?
Did you think we would make her beautiful?