Carousel Man

I. We Rise

Big, jagged gears grind at each other
beneath dainty sneakers and mini, tromping, work boots,
as they rise and fall to the rhythm
of the world's most over-played theme song.

Tiny feet kick at the horses;
pink-polished nails grip fast
at twisting, gilded ropes of metal.
as the white horse she's dreamed of jars her balance. 

Twinkling stars—her safety-song—
are crowded out by stadium lights,
drowned by raspy, megaphoned promises of teddies,
and snuffed out by greasy, pizza wafts

while mommy smiles at the carousel man.

II. We Fall

The school bus dropped me off, today,
with a note pinned to my jacket—
which I instinctively shed.

There were big, brown, working boots
with grubby laces tearing off their seams
in the front doorway, anyhow.
The mud's still shiny, I notice,
then scamper, bare shouldered, out back.
But, no one's in the petunias, or raking the leaves.

The orchids are lone as ever,
and the daisy's hint at nothing.
So, I trace the ivy-laced stonewall
back to the oak framed, glass, French doors,
through which the offending boots loom.

I don't walk down to the hallway,
not a muscle moves toward the big, locked door.
I just squat in the center of linoleum floor

and wish myself out of here.

Clamping eyelids on dew drops,
like they used to form over green blades,
my little-girl heart beats from the outside,
a heavy, slow pounding at real life—
at dirty dishes in the stained porcelain sink,
and bills on the moldy-bread crumb countertop,
and worst of all, at mommy screaming behind
thick, heavy, wooden dividers
where I can't make it stop.

The ticking seconds beat my feet
down deeper with every fleeting thought.
You bury me in this moment, where only weeds sprout forth.

Worst of all, I can't even move to discard crumpled paper
with fancy, scrawling, accusative, black letters
sure to yield a wailing
or a licking.

III. We Stand

I learned to play chess on the bathroom floor.
Alone with hardly decipherable directions,

I learned . . .

Pawns inch forward—apprehension, at best,
fearful in truth.
They scuttle about, hollowed out,
thin layers of porcelain guarding the vaults
of decades past, daily relived,
secrets and history intermingling
in initial action—or it's subtle, black absence.

Knights charge straight forward,
marching to blood-strewn battle cries
with the orders of phantom generals pounding at their backs,
and unbenounced enemies dangling at spear-point,
while bishops swim obliquely
before, behind, beyond, and around
accusation, offense, and righteous action.

Queens—enraged, and power-thirsty—
slurp dry the  veins of opposition,
post pummel and tackle and blind-side attack,
fueled by passion and whim,

while solely good Kings stand tall
to greet either death, or damnation
in the veil of fallen comrade, service,
and love.

I've never believed in chivalry.