Red ribbons caught in the wormholes
Of grandma’s warmed wooden floors,
Absent the apparition
Of white rabbits and all-knowing men
In tall black hats who would
Roll her into their palms like modeling clay
Before swallowing her soul.
There at night, the cold of lonesome
Stuck into her eyes and thighs
Like tiny toothpicks, each one hungry
For the taste of some girl’s madness.
And, closed eyes to the fury,
She dreamed of clouds,
Those invisible ice caves of the sky
Where one could live and die inside
Without ever having their face be shown,
She felt she could exist that way.
But here, between the floorboards,
She became an instrument to time,
Company to the mill worms in the basement,
A beautiful, spinning spectral to rival the morning dew.
Until they found her finally,
All blue and swollen as a bent tick,
Eyes open wide as if to administer
A final night glow into the cellar not unlike
Those dark sunken rooms
Where old men hide their jars of body parts
And journals full of twisted words,
Syllables jutting as wildly as a tree branch gone awry.
And her fingernails, each one
Torn from the beds of their flesh
As if in death she hung there
Scouring the uncovered depths of her hands
For some secret.
Written from a prompt at We Write Poems.