The Poet’s Dream of Herself as a Young Girl

How talented, my daughter,
In all media of art—
Oils, charcoal, water,
The rending of the heart.

They told you you were clever,
But the heart is not an egg
That breaks once and forever;
It’s a dog that learns to beg

For bones dropped on the floor,
To lick up spilt milk there
Curdled with tears, to adore
From the shelter under a chair.

You thought that you were wise,
But the brain is not a box
Inlaid with galaxies;
It’s the steel trap and the fox

Gnawing its foot to escape
While buzzards dial the sky
And you see the huntsman’s cape
Crimson as liberty.

For your sake, I still loathe
The way he made you trip
On the long sleeve of your love,
Your innocence let slip

Like a bra-strap over your shoulder.
But you already know the rest:
How you died, then got older,
How you buried your heart in my chest.

© A. E. Stallings—This poem first appeared in The Eclectic Literary Journal