Like the hands of God upon the flock, she steers
the puppets through painted scenery of the
marketplace, the marriage bed, the foreboding
castle. And it’s her who spins these tall tales as
children roar with laughter on the floor. While
the knight slays the dragon that breathes real
fire, I’m sitting all alone, my itchy pink dress
beginning to chafe, forgotten in my hidden tower,
gnawing on a splinter stuck between my teeth,
my strings gone slack around the bed sheets.

(copyrighted) Nicole Loranger