A Unicorn Bathrobe

-


It is 7 a.m. in Nashville.

The last call song slingers

have lassoed the moon

and the cafe bluebirds have flown home to roost 

as the sun 

like the south 

rises again

on the town of Green Hill.

She is a 9-year-old girl with sleep-tangled hair

wearing critter slippers  

and a unicorn bathrobe that has the power to 

protect her

as long as she has it on.

In the misty visibility of a daydream

she sees the cute boy in the lunchroom

and smiles as if he’s smiling back

She suddenly remembers falling asleep on the Halloween hayride 

and feeling the presence of Jesus 

She reenters the ethos of her bedroom 

and stares at the shadow of the crochet heart 

which dangles 

as carefree as Sunday

on her window

She dresses quickly 

in between shivers.  

Leggings from Kohls. 

Her birthday high tops.  

A tee shirt that reads, “Do more of what makes your soul happy.”

She considers switching her alliance from 

pink to lavender

Pretends that lip balm is lipstick and poses 

like Miley in the mirror 

as Mama sings God’s Will in the kitchen clanking flatware and dishes like sloppy percussion.

With sneakers tied

And pony tail corralled

she performs her last-minute ritual

A farewell speech to her troops of secret 

dolls.

And then she’s gone.

Leaving behind her empty bathrobe

Which will not be able to save her when she 

falls 

like a freshly shot 

white-tailed deer

in the halls of The Covenant School

Where days later her sister will cry out, 

“I don’t want to be an only child” 

in front of a makeshift memorial of 

teddy bears, balloons, and flowers.










Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

MY OWN PERSONAL MERMAID. BELIEVE IN HER.

-
Image
It was a sad time in New York City, especially on Park Avenue where I lived then. My given name was Magritte, for daddy’s favorite artist Rene Magritte, who thought that embracing mystery was “as indispensable as snow on Christmas.” But everyone, as far back as I can remember, always called me “Mags.” I was 8, an only child, who was impressively precocious for her age. My favorite authors were Kafka, the feminist writer Naomi Wolff and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. When I was seven, I wrote a love letter to Stephen Hawking. He wrote back saying, “Jesus, I just can’t figure you out.” I had a room that was handmade to make me feel that magic was at all times of the night and day, a dependable, ever-ready option thanks, in part to the twinkling stars, comet trails, and cream-colored clouds that streaked across the infinite, midnight blue sky of my ceiling  that was painted by my mom when she was young, healthy, and still able to do things like wave to daddy’s video camera with daffy rubber-f
Read more

What Must Babies Think?

-
What must babies think, As they wonder why their Push pram rocket ship Which on most days thrusts them Into the universe of the fiery sky ball and chatter filled park Sits mothballed in the corner Staring at the wall like White-haired bench people Who always seem so Sad and forgotten? What must dogs think The Wal Mart greeters of the Animal world Who use the sign language Of the excitable nose and tail To communicate their borderline insane love for anything that moves When they trot out first thing In the morning like they’re in competition at Westminster Only to discover A show of silent concrete? What must jets think Who usually cannibalize people Until their bellies are full When the only in-flight meal Is a flight crew Two pilots And 900 steerage ghosts Who sit Without hope or destiny In the kind of Quiet That follows anyone Who has ever walked Away from a grave? What must birds think The cocky pigeons The Blue-header vireo Or the Y
Read more

When Ours Parents Are Gone

-
I have not spoken to my dad in over forty years. Years ago I turned my back on him and walked away and that was that. No, we didn’t have a fight. He died when I was 25 and that walk away came right on the beat at the conclusion of the service in the cemetery after we lowered him with sway and love deep into the womb of the ground, like a treasure chest, ceremonially buried in that family secret place that only we would ever know the location of. When you bury a parent, time suddenly becomes unfathomable, unreliable, it suddenly faints away like a delicate socialite into the landing strip of a waiting divan, from the searing heat of loss, Our parent’s final breath pushes us into a dimension of exquisite separation and inextinguishable pain, where everything still feels just within our reach but in truth is now as far away as the weeping moon. The cemetery only knows formality. The weathered stones, which, like the canvas of our souls, have epitaphs and life stories carved deeply into th
Read more