Flummox, and other fairytales, of course
The opal is a jewel
like a fallopian tube
, she will
whisper to you while you
spend your wanderlust evenings
learning how to fall asleep- she
will become a child before your
very swollen eyes, partaking in
delusional inner workings and flipping
her fledgling birds to the neo-Roman
aristocracy, posing, as it were, in their
Victorian rags and waving their
fake flags across their windows, though
long ago she licked her own glass from
the inside out until her tongue fogged it to such a
strong pitch that no one could find her
behind the layers of drool and spittle
she gave to the world.

When you meet her she will introduce
herself with Flummox, and proceed
to compare herself to the battle
of Agincourt.

She will give you her three finger
nightshade discount on midsummer
evenings when you become caked in
sunshine and find yourself hobbling
down empty streets, drunk with an
obsession you cannot name but
hunt like a wild animal with such
force that the dogs left unattended
will be stunned into silence behind
their chain link fences.

The red light will burn like
the bricks she once dreamed her
home would be forged from, like
the layers of velvet the movie stars
wear in the sepia toned daguerreotype
she finds in weather-rotted dumpsters -
they give her dreams to be fantastical,

fantastical suites her well.

The belfry of her breast breaks
like a howl across the entombed east, like
airplane tails and night-light skies.

And when you find yourself chilled
by her stranger surroundings she will
offer you pox-marked Indian blankets
sold to her by a shaman who survived
through the Trail of Tears, and told her
bedtime stories about Georgia before it had a name.
And deep in the night when sounds prowl aghast
at their own gumption she will pull
her grandfathers twisted riffle out
from under the bed – she will tell you
that it was used at the battle of Vicksburg,
and will always fire straight and true
no matter what its present exterior showcases or
how much you argue with her to the contrary.

Her bridal ballad is an accompaniment
to the show tunes she hums in
the afternoon after reading sexually
grandiose novellas, though you will
never take her as your bride.

Flummox – you will whisper
while she is crouched above you, your
hands to her lips so that no sound
from her will accompany your
wonder.

____________________________________________________________________
a/n: written for december wcc.