Four poems I forgot I had written
From the window of this jewlery store
I can see the glass case of fairies
Tiny porcelin sleeping delicate things
With butterfly wings-- clear ones
Though now that I think about it
They might have belonged to a mosquito
Really quite obscene
The way they rip those wings
Straight out of the back of a bug who used them
And glue these members of a thing dismembered
To dolls someone will pay money for
But still I tell myself
I will buy one
When I have money
None of the wings in this case are broken
None of the insects' sacrifices wasted
Often the splinterey fragments like snapped twigs and broken glass
Are the only things glued to the fairies' bodies
I know
I come to admire these fairies often
Wondering now for the first time
If other admirers lust after their perfect waists and slender legs
Wondering now if their maker
Creates them out of some strange fantasy
Finding them asleep and easily captured
Easily violated
Their delicate skin rubbed raw by feverish kisses
The useless flapping of wings pinched and torn
By greedy fingers
Coming home is like
Being an arm in the moment it is riped off of its body
Returning to my house from school
is like
Finding the brown broken promise of an avacado I bought from the store
rotten
I attack it with a butter knife
Coming home feels like anything but
Coming home
The bugs pinch my legs
Little stinging itches explode on the underside of thighs
resting crossed on the lawn
But birdsong swells in the moments when no car roars past
And the clouds following the sun over the horizon shine gold
You went to sleep that night
The last night
The night before your 8 am final
Final, finality
The end
"goodbye"
I sat on the stone bench
My body heat was lost to the air
But you were beneath blankets then
And wouldn't have needed it
Needed, I needed, desired
To fill the empty seat next to me
To share my Grapefruit Izzy
That I bought again
Mostly because you liked it
I shouldn't have been so surprised
When I turned
To offer the empty air a sip.
I can see the glass case of fairies
Tiny porcelin sleeping delicate things
With butterfly wings-- clear ones
Though now that I think about it
They might have belonged to a mosquito
Really quite obscene
The way they rip those wings
Straight out of the back of a bug who used them
And glue these members of a thing dismembered
To dolls someone will pay money for
But still I tell myself
I will buy one
When I have money
None of the wings in this case are broken
None of the insects' sacrifices wasted
Often the splinterey fragments like snapped twigs and broken glass
Are the only things glued to the fairies' bodies
I know
I come to admire these fairies often
Wondering now for the first time
If other admirers lust after their perfect waists and slender legs
Wondering now if their maker
Creates them out of some strange fantasy
Finding them asleep and easily captured
Easily violated
Their delicate skin rubbed raw by feverish kisses
The useless flapping of wings pinched and torn
By greedy fingers
Coming home is like
Being an arm in the moment it is riped off of its body
Returning to my house from school
is like
Finding the brown broken promise of an avacado I bought from the store
rotten
I attack it with a butter knife
Coming home feels like anything but
Coming home
The bugs pinch my legs
Little stinging itches explode on the underside of thighs
resting crossed on the lawn
But birdsong swells in the moments when no car roars past
And the clouds following the sun over the horizon shine gold
You went to sleep that night
The last night
The night before your 8 am final
Final, finality
The end
"goodbye"
I sat on the stone bench
My body heat was lost to the air
But you were beneath blankets then
And wouldn't have needed it
Needed, I needed, desired
To fill the empty seat next to me
To share my Grapefruit Izzy
That I bought again
Mostly because you liked it
I shouldn't have been so surprised
When I turned
To offer the empty air a sip.