You could never picture me in the pockets of my West Coast.
I flew out of your story and into another, and then
Even into another, always the phoenix.
No longer yours, but his.
No longer his, but mine.
Perhaps I suffered these little deaths to forge a heaven with him.
A king, he’d follow me to the ends of the earth, thrice over.
His queen I’m still too shy to let shine through,
A star stubbornly obscured by cloud.
Though before I complained of rain,
On the Island it never bothered me.
Even in the dead of winter it kept the grass emerald-green.
An emerald city:
Ivy shrouded trees; moss fluorescent.
Our castles were those green giants.
Siamese blue to denim blue.
Betwixt the Spit & Seabroom.
It was all I dreamed and ever wanted.
The only thing missing was the garden, the garden,
Sheltered by walls made of cob.
Or a whole house, the air inside delectable.
Tendril of dream,
Is a cinder girl deserving of bees,
Turning honey into mead, of wild things?
No. Exiled to a foreign land,
A barren land; the ghetto forest.
Those halcyon years now only a memory.
Ridiculous to expect the bald
Rocks to yield to a surfer’s paradise, of
Blue-green ocean. Long hairs cannot thrive under puritans’ eyes.
Green things tremble for sun.
For all the rain, I remember the sun,
Filtering down through the forest canopy,
Upheld by the cathedral’s true pillars
Rather than these thrifty spindles. In reverence of true
Beauty, all is quiet & hushed.
The birth of a princess may bring us back.
Pioneers, we’re still in search of our happy ending,
To live lush in nature’s majesty.
I know the Pacific is still out there
Crashing itself onto stony beaches.
Mists wreath those mountains.
The drums beat.
That muted boom, my thud of heart.
"Fairytale" can be found in my book, "Blood for Honey", available at Lulu.com and Amazon.