The Unicorn Bathrobe

It is 7 a.m. in Nashville.

The last call song-slingers have lassoed the Moon

and the cafe bluebirds have all 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 crocheted heart

which dangles, as carefree as Sunday, on her window

She dresses quickly in between shivers.  

Leggings from Kohl’s. Her birthday high tops.  

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

She considers switching her allegiance 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 ponytail 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 blood-slathered 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.