December 13th

She wears a pair of pink strap-on
marabou wings and whatever she’s staring at
is something most of us hope we never see.

I recognize her from Cora street’s wildflower
median. She knelt there for days last summer
and announced Do Not Mow –

repeating the posted phrase as if to teach
a bird to talk. She looks like she grew up
from a fifth grade classmate I remember,

one who skipped cracks to save her mothers
back, a girl with boy’s glasses and breasts
too soon. Shoppers skirt the sidewalk

where she stands this evening in a stained
white formal, a store window at her back
as if she’s part of the display. Her perpetual grin

reminds me why mannequin smiles show no teeth.
This demented bridesmaid shuffles into the street
where her damp hair gleams red with Christmas light

and she becomes someone else. A serene ingenue,
ecstatic in her ordeal – Saint Lucy, unaware
she has been crowned and the crown is fire.


Sixfold, Summer 2014