Sometimes, in the morning, I catch a glimpse of her.
She darts out of the mirror, as I ease away night
terrors. I wonder where and how she left me,
that knobby little girl with daydreams in her eyes.
I can’t help but recollect all the little things,
snapshots buried in a box, buttercup days
and goose-bump creeks. How sharp the bite
on my skin as I straddled gnarled limbs
drawn under patchwork blue and green.
Fall leaves, their acrid dust trapped inside my throat,
dyed my hair in silvered strands. Winter’s sting
and spring’s first show of tulips in the garden.
I remember I’ve forgotten what it is to play.

I’ve forgotten play. What it is to remember
spring tulips in the garden. First show of
winter’s sting dyed my hair in silvered strands.
Leaves fall, dust trapped acrid in my throat.
Under patch-worked blue and green drawn
over spraddled limbs, my skin is gnarled
in goose-bumped creeks. How sharp the bite:
buttercup days, buried snapshots in a box,
all the little things. I can’t help but recollect
daydream eyes, that knobby little girl.
I wonder where she left me and how tremors
dart the night as I ease her out of the mirror.
Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of her in mourning.

Laurie Mackie

Next: Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

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