You know how when you lay
yourself down in the back porch
hammock, sleep all day and
wake up thinking: am I still married?
Those kids of Judy’s—are they
grown yet? Is that model rocket
still in the basement—the five
fins that took all the glue?
It’s the same in those stories
where the girl has to sweep
the ashes from the fire for seven
days, until the dark man lets her go—
only it could be seven years, or seven
decades in your life until
the lock springs open, and now
grown-up with gold in your pocket,
you stride into the breezy afternoon.
Isn’t that the way of things—
dropping breadcrumbs faithfully,
so sure and full of hope,
then looking back and the crows
already making off with them.
You could be anyone thinking
these thoughts.
You could have wandered
into this life by mistake and still
be on the second wish, or run
anytime to the edge of the forest,
calling out for the red-haired man
to take you back to the palace
where the King and Queen
remain with their son or daughter,
the feast set out, silver
glinting in the torchlight, honeyed
pears and apples from Damascus,
everyone silent as the drawbridge
clinks lower, waiting for your sword
on the iron door.
First published in Twelve Los Angeles Poets (Bombshelter Press)
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