I’ve been to Shawell
by whispering soft
syllables of vowels,
There, I met a
girl of Gumps—
who led me down
to shadowed dumps.
I came back bearing
quite a few lumps.
She wore pink baby
florets, woven through
her sunny hair,
carried a basket
of twins asleep,
an apple, a jug of milk,
and clothes, with an
umbrella—for the rain.
Twas a night of
strange old “oohs,”
and still—I rose
on my pointed toes.
I bruised her lips
like breath on glass—
two shadows still,
where time won’t pass.
I woke with tears I
couldn’t name—
and dreamed again,
but not the same.