five years old with
colorless hair that
absorbed the liquid
of sunshine.

her skin is so pale,
nearly translucent,
and i can see her veins
like rivers from
out of airplane windows,
thin lines dividing
and conquering the
pink valleys of her
flesh.

there is nothing
dark about her
or within her,
except,
the rings her eyes carry
around their
irises,
steel blue
and too cold,

i used to dream of
reaching down, down, down and
peeling the thin layer
straight from
their perimeters
so she could exist
knowing she was made of
light.

but they were only dreams,
the clock on the nursery wall
had already chosen
its pattern,
and the sunshine
in her hair started to
leak out when i lost the
bath plugs to the drain of her
youth-

so she slid down, down, down
clutching the sides of the wet
bathtub ineffectively,
all that pink skin, tender
child folds on her wrist,
dragged against the
brushed porcelain-
down, down, down.

i grabbed her
father's fishing pole
and baited the line with
a cheshire cat's smile
but she stayed underneath
where the meaning lives in
metallic pipes
and their curling smoke-steam-

but i lied, lied lied
the little girl was a part of me
i dragged her out from between
my fish-hoooked lips
and forced her
down, down, down
with the pads of my fingers
and yes i made her
drown, drown, drown
down that drain pipe.

but the rest of me skids on the surface
i have no father
i have no fishing rod
my cheshire cat claws are desperate
trying to find traction on this
bathtub floor,

but sometimes i imagine inhaling
the sweet scent of that
curling smoke-steam
and
flowing down, down, down
to my wonderland home.