Little Girl With The Pretty Name
by khf
It’s not too late--
eighty years passed in the wink of a fading star--
to tell the story of a little girl with the pretty name
and nowhere to carve her own image
from the love in people’s eyes.
Little girl with the pretty name
with no safe place to be
out of danger
away from turbulence
from sister explosions
and the looming threat
of a woebegone strap
crackling through dust motes.
Little girl with the pretty name
Stranded.
Bumping into air heavy with menace.
A child so familiar with wounds of the heart
forever collapsing against
shoulders chilled to the bone.
A child carrying light
searching for a place to shine.
A child of kindness
searching for a place to give.
Little girl with the pretty name
abandoned to the feral ways of fear--
a feverish, blistered swelling
where the devil plies its trade.
Where clouds are shaped with misgivings
and the magic is dark.
And monsters from the Saturday afternoon matinee
know her pretty name.
Monsters that claw her toes
while she sleeps
and drag her--
paralyzed--
into the dead night.
Little girl with the pretty name
has no name for the monsters
called Trauma.
She erects a fortress
and crawls inside
gripping her carpet bag
stuffed with
mortals and venials.
Holy water to cleanse the heathens.
Incense to banish evil.
And candles to burn for the babies
stuck in Limbo.
Little girl with the pretty name
does not see
danger lurking in that fortress
where matinee monsters
don sacred robes
and bind her
to beads
and exalted promises
of peace
that lapse into
eighty years of night
for the elderly woman
with the pretty name.
khf/2.24
by khf
It’s not too late--
eighty years passed in the wink of a fading star--
to tell the story of a little girl with the pretty name
and nowhere to carve her own image
from the love in people’s eyes.
Little girl with the pretty name
with no safe place to be
out of danger
away from turbulence
from sister explosions
and the looming threat
of a woebegone strap
crackling through dust motes.
Little girl with the pretty name
Stranded.
Bumping into air heavy with menace.
A child so familiar with wounds of the heart
forever collapsing against
shoulders chilled to the bone.
A child carrying light
searching for a place to shine.
A child of kindness
searching for a place to give.
Little girl with the pretty name
abandoned to the feral ways of fear--
a feverish, blistered swelling
where the devil plies its trade.
Where clouds are shaped with misgivings
and the magic is dark.
And monsters from the Saturday afternoon matinee
know her pretty name.
Monsters that claw her toes
while she sleeps
and drag her--
paralyzed--
into the dead night.
Little girl with the pretty name
has no name for the monsters
called Trauma.
She erects a fortress
and crawls inside
gripping her carpet bag
stuffed with
mortals and venials.
Holy water to cleanse the heathens.
Incense to banish evil.
And candles to burn for the babies
stuck in Limbo.
Little girl with the pretty name
does not see
danger lurking in that fortress
where matinee monsters
don sacred robes
and bind her
to beads
and exalted promises
of peace
that lapse into
eighty years of night
for the elderly woman
with the pretty name.
khf/2.24