No. 1

That lady
slipping down this tree
scrapes the bark
with her gold filled
as she goes
and falls
into the rabbit hole.

But really,
just a hole
at the foot of this tree
no rabbits
no jackals
no pin striped dragons
because dragons
don’t like rabbit holes
especially not ones
under trees.

Not where bird feathers
and itty-bitty bones
cake the walls.
Not ones where beeswax drips
through the brittle roots
and the sun
occasionally drops in
to see
what a rabbit hole
looks like
frightening our lady so
(because she’s unused to company)
and feathers ruffled,
she likes her order, thank you very much.

Picking out each fluff
out of her goose-feather arms
with tweezers,
she licks and pastes
onto her snow-globe home
a new layer of opulence
and a few dried up fruits.

All this,
while she chews
her bark
examining her handiwork
with a madman’s
critical eye.

Clutching at her throbbing
golden teeth,
clotted with
acorn bark and meat.
Apricot juice
trickles through the cracks in her chin
and the roots
worming their way
underneath her nails,
wonder on Tuesdays:


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