I was smaller than I'd imagined.
in my mind I was a super hero.
I could dodge false pretenses
and greed disguised as affection.
then I fell.
like I carried a contagion that would
lead to hopelessness.
no. that isn't true.
I'm the girl who still puts on fairy wings
no matter how many times they've been
bent and broken
by Pan or Hook or Crook or God.
my feet are scaly.
does Obama get dry feet?
or does someone bathe them in oils
like they did with Jesus?
I like to write with my eyes closed so not even I am watching.
only parts of me will float back.
others will be dragged deep beneath blue-black water.
no matter how I thrash my fins
I only end up swimming in circles until finally
my mouth invites the hook in.
I open my big fish mouth as wide as it will go
and my eyes bulge as the water weeps off them.
sometimes it's like I'm running away,
other times you're the prey.
or do I fish but then I'm the bait?
If you choose to eat me I hope you swallow me whole
and I live inside you, eating your roe and your ribs
until you are taken from the inside out
and when I say good night . . .
is it fair to pretend that I don't understand all the people I am and all the things I claim to be?
goodnight moon has turned to blood diamonds
but I'm still asking where the wild things are
and who speaks for the trees now
and can it be me?
I can't fish.
I don't have the constitution for it.
I wish I could farm and grow dreams.
Then I'd never go hungry.