There is a doll in
a little brick house
with satin tights
and her shirt tucked in
and she is smiling
because the machine
that made her
carved a smile into
her plastic head.

People have taken
little pieces of me
Paid little mind since
the pieces are free

Daughter,
you are beautiful -
A golden ray of light.
You are the reflection of
the moon in a freshwater lake -
glimmering.
You create music like morning
birdsong
when you think
when you dream
when you hope.
Daughter, you are beautiful
just as you are
alive.

The princess shaves her armpits
Everyday because if she doesn’t
The people will whisper
About the dark stains under her arms
Whenever she fixes her crown

We are
Floating down a river
where the waiting never stops
Holding onto our last exhale
too afraid to drown
Dreaming of the day that we sail
high above the clouds
Pretending we have yet to reach
the edge of the waterfall

Moths are swatted
butterflies kissed
Pollution in fog
but beauty in mist
Shades of skin
the lighter adored
Loveliest lauded
the average ignored
Wilting flowers
tossed and snubbed
Only the beautiful
are cherished and
loved

Her - a red duck
with yellow-winged brothers

She walks red, sheds red
unlike them and
Her mother - a buttercup:
a flower in the field -
or her father - a ripe lemon
budding from the tree overhead

Her family - sunlight
that never sets
Her - a rarity in the early evening sky

Bleary-eyed, an old man asks for change,
coins rattling in his hand. A woman
hands him saltine crackers across the aisle.
“God bless you,” he mutters, takes a seat,
and unwraps the plastic with shaking hands.
He smiles at her before she leaves the train.

Tonight, the passengers on the train
are surprisingly quiet for a change.
We are all staring down at our hands.
And then the silence breaks - a woman
cackles aloud to herself in her seat.
Her laughter travels up and down the aisle.

I overhear a conversation across the aisle
between a couple who’ve just entered the train,
and are searching for a pair of empty seats.
They’re muttering “the country is changing”
and they say they are afraid. The woman
sighs, and reaches for her lover’s hand.

I look over at a child holding her mother’s hand.
I meet the little girl’s gaze from across the aisle.
I see myself as a child too, but to her I’m a woman.
I wonder how often the little girl rides the train.
Does she long to see something else for a change -
something other than the back of a seat?

I notice a lady who has started dancing in her seat,
snapping her fingers and waving her hands,
bobbing to a silent beat. I imagine her changing
into a sequined dress and waltzing down the aisle,
giving everyone a performance to watch on the train.
I imagine standing up and dancing with that woman

and then everyone begins to dance with the woman -
we all jump up onto our seats
and suddenly we are in a ballroom, not a train.
We are tapping our feet and clapping our hands
to the music - the little girl across the aisle
is dancing with the old man who asked for change.

The train stops. We’ve arrived at my station. The dancing woman leaves the train. The passengers change and now there are strangers in their seats. I wave my hand goodbye to the little girl as I walk past her down the aisle.

She tucked in my shirt
and patted my head,
“Always be yourself”
was the first thing she said.

She painted my lips
and powdered my nose,
called me a daisy,
but wanted a rose.

She looked at my shoes
and gave me her heels,
noticed my body,
restricted meals.

She ignored my work
chastised my art,
gathered my drawings,
ripped them apart.

She decided my plans,
outlined each day,
gave me one order -
“don’t disobey.”

She tucked in my shirt
and patted my head,
“You’re nothing without me”
was the last thing she said.

If I sketched an angel without wings
would you be able to tell
she’s an angel?
The sky behind her would be pale yellow
The world below, gray
Like the color of the outline of her frame
I’d describe her face as angelic
Which is supposed to give it away
But maybe you’d only say she looks nice

Four limbs
Branching from a peach tree
My skin is a shield
My fat is fuel
A vessel for my weary soul
I will let it carry me

O'clock O clock
It rings and rings
The faucet drips
A kettle sings

O'clock Clock in
It coughs and beep
The keyboards clack
A cubicle weeps

O'clock Clock out
Cough again beep
The sirens whine
A child sleeps

O'clock O clock
It rings and rings
The faucet drips
A kettle sings

She was the girl
with the crooked smile
who had great plans, big dreams
for everyone but herself -
who kept change in her pocket
for the old woman
on the side of the road
and for the child
leaning over the edge
of the fountain
smiling at the pennies
that had sunk
heavy with hope
along with the empty wishes
they were supposed to make true.
She was the girl
with the copper eyes
twinkling
teaming with life,
the girl who was too lovely, too young
to die.

Blue bear
with golden teeth -
He took a bite from my neck
when I wasn’t looking.
I looked at him then
and he smiled at me.
I saw pieces of my flesh
in his golden teeth.

I don’t know how to dance
Never learned
Never thought I’d need to know
So you led me, gently, at first
We started out simple and easy
like a bite of sponge cake
A one and two and three and four and
It felt good to glide across the linoleum floor
Light as a feather
Like I weighed nothing at all

I am quiet, still
A body of water at rest
Waiting to be disturbed

We are like weeds -
like painted clovers
who grow anxious
at the sight of
lovers and little girls
with petals in their hair,
like daisies stepped on
by rubber soles and padded heels
waiting patiently
while bees flock to tulips instead,
like muted dandelions
plucked from the roots
and tossed aside with
barren heads and broken stems
mourning for their
scattered leaves,
like ivy and creeping thistle
eyes shut and whispering,
whimpering to themselves
a solemn hymn
praying to be left alone
for now.