We caught her
100 Acres from the Woods
wearing white, a cotton dress
with porridge stains, raisins
and honey on her breath,
goose feathers almost disguised
by her long golden locks. 

We writers are the truth, confessional booths
—part passenger, part messenger,
part realist. As we must be. 

Dark hair swoops
up in a crown, she is a statue, studying
the world on the other side of the glass
gleaming as if polished by hundreds of hands. 

Up, clutching the sky, we are
brittle. This explosion leaves a lingering shush
from the triggered weapon. We’re forced down.
Houses the color of children's thoughts hide
a brittle explosion and leaves. Hush, a hush lingers.