on an Easter Sunday,
her shoes plead for the dew
for clippings which cling with a springtime ferocity
a will to be anywhere else
and the rabbits lose their way
they haven’t the time
shimmying, as they do, down foxholes,
slick with dawn’s water
and passing, like ships
in some night they shan’t see
dying free but not beloved
now, every girl’s a Katherine
cut down to a size
which necessitates the trailing taste of some sir’s name
and induced by the sheer restlessness
of a christened bed,
Katie B. commandeers playgrounds
when age is tender
and scrapes more common than a kiss goodnight
all the while,
our little daisy sits in a half-baked garden
the deer will not keep secret
without pockets for Polly
just stitched up renderings she abhors
but not as much as she ought to
and will
come the times of cocoa butter and zirconia
she speaks in hushed tones
on the outs with an imaginary friend
and worried about making Mommy even more so
she clasps the back of a baby-haired, sun-stung neck
bath-puckered fingers sliding down fishtail rungs
with no concept of frenching
no concept of anything, really
except, that the taste will be a bitter one,
when it does come
when she stops beating or drops dead
having rolled with the punches he named passion
why should she be free
when she could be beloved?
