Dorothy's Dream

Lucile Blanchard

Toto gone. He couldn't resist
those monkeys. The sky that awful green,
another tornado or maybe the glow
of Emerald City. These yellow bricks,
laid out by midgets who couldn't spot
the horizon, meander. And poppies, oh,
the poppies.

Tin Man wants me to see beyond
his skin and weeps himself to rust
at tiny deaths beneath his feet.
If I only had a heart. My basket
holds stale bread, a wormy apple.
The poppies, oh.

We breathe deep and trample wishes
even as we seek them. Lion
hides from the gloating witch,
but then she melts into a fading
memory of evil thoughts. Scarlet
poppies.

Straw Man scatters his innards and stuffs
them back. He thinks, therefore he is.
But what exactly is he? Where
will we find our next meal?
Lion said Toto went with the monkeys.
Poppies.

That's not a wizard behind the curtain,
only a huckster for Oz, selling
illusions. I'm left with these witchy shoes.
Life comes to this, the shoes you wear.

Lucile Blanchard