Called princess

Gilded and waiting somewhere in one of those Disney castles

Her hands folded demurely in her crushed velvet dress, with perfect little moon shaped cuticles and painted nails

Her golden hair flowing down her knees and those pink ribbons

Drifting off her hat and over the moon that shines and fades away

In the brick-rimmed window

Where she can lean in the wind and let her hair down and sing sonnets about love

And she gives off angst like perfume, and anyone over thirty would choke in her presence


Is not me

I don't look good in dresses, not at all

And my hair isn't long or flowing, mainly short and scruffy, but with character

And I hate the color pink almost as much as make up and lip-gloss

And I don't like waiting for too long, and I usually tap my foot on things if I have to

And I'd rather be killing the dragon, for the prince, with a great big sword with wolves on the hilt

And maybe I'd have a couple of other spiky and deadly morbid things they tell you about in clipped sentences in history class, the kinds of weapons they stop talking about too soon

And you are forced to go back to sleep

Just when you were beginning to think that maybe things were starting to be interesting


It doesn't reflect places,

Places like mesas and desert waterfalls where the lichen paints the walls green and slick and the rocks look like those sunsets you see in those paintings in the dentist's office

Places that make sense to me and don't try to interrupt, where the old red coyotes aren't scared and they watch you from up high and laugh to themselves as you walk by

Places where the ravens live in the junipers and talk about the past, about the baking old dead raccoon down interstate 40 and the gas stations where people leave food on the sidewalks and on top of their chipped green vans

Places where the Anazazi drew pictures because they didn't have anything better to do but survive, where surviving isn't easy and isn't' fun, but they drew because they were people and they needed too, and they let you know it from then on, and they sang it in their drawings

Places where the rocks look like men and the women look like rocks and the dogs have sand in their fur and look ready to run off and dance with their coyote brides

Places that are ruggedly handsome and angry and very stubborn and quite lovable

Places where it is best not to hug them, because something with teeth will nip you and you might bleed a little

Although the strange thing would be that you would still love it with all your heart

And you would most definitely forgive it

Places like that are most definitely not Sara


It's calm, and bleeds rustic, like cows on farms, the kinds that moo in those contended voices and have had their horns removed

It's like those wholesome kittens with white paws

You might want to pet it, or give it a teddy bear or some chocolate, the kind in the shape of kittens and hearts

Or maybe give it some purple velvet pillows and pat it on the head and give it a glass of water and a little red flower

Or perhaps even smile at it and note that it got awfully good grades and was a fine member of the community

And always-behaved well and never screwed things up and liked to draw horses

One of those names, the kind you want to deck one day when it accidentally sprays perfume into your backpack

I have always hated those kinds of names

And I can honestly say

That Sara can flit off on the night breeze to it's canopy bed and it can read it's teen novels And it can wish it had a boyfriend and giggle with it's skipping friends, and wonder about many very little things

And it can apply lipstick and smile in the mirror and practice model poses

And it can be good at soccer and it can draw horses

And it can always smile

And it can play chess

And I'll be quite fine with that

As long as Sara leaves me

The hell alone