Night beckons to strange people.
Actually, if you can accept this premise,
then the mind makes everyone strange.
And still yet, there is something specific about darkness,
I cannot put my finger on it,
that sends odd sparks of real life
on a mission to city street corners.

I hide in my car after leaving the café
with the hope of seeing, "The Pigtailed Man."
This isn't his name.
However, I need say no more to any stranger
for him to envision my character.
We objectify him and his image becomes clear
even when spotted in narrowed alleyway darkness.

He has a beautiful wife
with locks past her shoulder
of auburn and lillies,
and two wonderfully bright children
who sit on his knee when listening
to nighty-night, bedtime stories.
Their ringing laughter illuminates
the darkest corners of their happy home.
They'll never know why he needs
to go bye-bye at dangerous evening hours,
hunting sour scowls from passers-by.

He's unkempt: legs unshaven, chin covered
by midnight shadow, beer belly hanging over his
plaid picnic-basket red schoolgirl skirt,
and his face sags as if a topical novocaine
was applied generously to his chubby, rosy cheeks.
Upon seeing his aimless strut
and dead-to-self eyes, I wonder: Where does he dress?
Does he put his outfit on from plastic grocery bag
around the block from the lamp-lit looks of
the neighbors' friendly daytime greetings?
More importantly, if I were friend
and was to catch him in the act,
would I say anything?

Darkness calls out the most intriguing creatures.
We're afraid to call them "human beings,"
because being human most certainly
does not look like this.
Or, does it not look like this?
Shadows claw walls around all
because not one body projects light.
There are some who know, and some who appease.
The pigtails hang to his knees as he stares
at the mannequins of pretty women
in the window of the closed department store.

I want to tell you I could love you.
I could make you happy.
I could make you fall apart on the
bedroom floor,
helplessly and desperately proclaiming
that our love was more
than the nights of
raised arms and oceans of threatening depths.

But fifteen is an age when all of this
is just a dream,
a cliff where the jump is even more
dangerous than everyone says it to be.
Fifteen is the age when I believe,
that my hands have grown rough enough
to take yours
and maturity and age
have always been our similarity.
But fifteen is just another name for
"You're too young."

I cannot promise you that a wedding ring
would worth more than
the freedom to love the women
of taller heights and wider hips
for their lipstick is much darker
than the lip balm I use to
smoothen the dried skin.

For I do not know what it is like
to slide the glass between my fingers
and to taste the golden bubbles
freeze my teeth.

I do not know how to light a cigarette
or how to inhale the scent and death of rebellion.
I do not know how to let the ashes fall
unto the tray without burning my skin
and dirtying my nails.

I do not know how to make you want me,
how to dress and turn my curves
into mountains you wish to explore.
I do not know how to turn my tongue
into a weapon much deadlier
than the wind.
I do not know how to make you
feel beautiful.

So with all of the worlds streets, corners and
dimly lit bars,
I am nothing but a little pigtailed girl
with a lollipop in one hand and a poorly written
love note in the other.
And there you are,
as tall and as handsome as I've always seen
you as
with no time to look down,
only straight ahead.

But I guess, thats okay.
The heels would never have fit me anyway.

You're droopin' now like a sad balloon
cast down from Heaven
Your tail's dragging on the ground
- the one you escaped so long before -
and now you're down, down, down

You remember floatin' in the sky
watchin' little people as they all walked by
busy with themselves and their teeny-tiny lives
Now they're bigger than you and you don't know why
you can't fly, fly, fly

The wrinkles in your face are deep
As you sag closer to the ground
You're sure it's the end and say your prayers to
the Helium Gods and the party favor stores
when a li'l pigtailed girl picks you up and yells,
"Look what I found, found, found!"

And then you know it ain't how high ya float
that really matters in your life
Despite your droopin' and saggin' you don't
got no naggin' 'cause this kid's gonna love you
'til you die, die, die

*pop

Dear daughter,
Let me introduce myself.
Whether you call me your friend, your confidante
Or you call me a **** and crazy,
I am your mother,
Your Ma, your mom, your momma, your mommy,
Your Mother.
I will be your faithful guide, friend, companion.
I Will be your first teacher and your last.
Sometimes I will be in front of your saying “Nice try! But try again.”
Or I may be beside you unsure of the same answer as you.
But sometimes I will follow behind you, learning from you along the way.
Remember the good times
And the bad, and be scared of your feelings
Because fear is an emotion too.
When you become lost, never let the wonders leave your eyes,
Even though you may wander.
But in your wandering, your small hands could touch nations,
If only you would let them.
Just believe the world has magic in it,
Because the moments of small silence give way
To their own kind of bewitchment.
Sing loud and proud like no one is watching…
And if you can’t, Happy Birthday works just as well.
Look for the glow worms, my child,
The baby fireflies,
Because they are a rare creature indeed
And can only be seen at the darkest of times,
Just like the stars.
Let your eyes be like fireflies and your steps like a prance
Because nothing attracts men like a bright girl who can dance.
So move your way closer to me
Because there is a pigtailed shaped hole in my heart
For the little girl that you will always be to me.
Live as many lives as possible and explore several worlds,
But always follow the banana bread crumbs back home by nightfall
Because nothing good ever happens after eleven…
Unless you are making a wish.
And if you are, load every 11:11 wish with a prayer
And aim it towards the sky.
Send a letter to the stars to make room for one more
Because someday you will shine,
But on your way to the top,
Tread lightly, my child,
And don’t wake the beasts
Because they exist
Trust me, I know.
Even when you are grown and have daughters of your own
Think back to me and remember.
Love,
Your Mother

Head smacked
With an abrupt thwack.
Nose aggressively shoved in the corner;
Followed by the crazed rant
Of an old school rhymer;
Unaware their current act....chant....
in the Future be court docket tabled....
Labled...
And designated a "child abuse" crime:
Breaking news at prime time

"How dare you speak to me?
Didn't your mother...
Or father teach you proper manners?
Look here, look listen! Directly into my eyes see!
So... I may know you understand clearly.
Little girls (and boys) are to be 'seen and not heard.'
You disrespectful ****."

" thwackity thwack"
A hard double hit reverberates  
(Emotionally terminates)
As a forceful chalked blue
Cue
Smacks...
Cracks...
The backside of the child's red
Pigtailed Head
(Thrusting it forward in an eight ball call shot
Designated for the left corner wall slot).

Nose banking the wall with a hard ******.
Dripping blood
(In full crimson flood),
Invading her mouth with copper waste
(Mixed in with the salty taste
Of tears falling in silent haste).
Destined to dry with a tinge of rust
and crust.

Followed by a loss of parental guidance trust.

Daring not a single peep--
In weep.
The child covers her bloodied mouth
(With trembling hands)--
Muffling emotional cries at an alarming rate--
(In a fearful state),
Dreading a forced follow foul stroke:
That a single sound could provoke.

Contemplating her prelection:
In extreme sudation.

She wondered why her mother....
Father..
Encouraged her ranting chatter
And told her that all questions matter?

Didn't they know that bubbly banter...
Chatter...
Would cause her
Disciplinary stature
(Possible nose fracture)
And a guaranteed position in the corner
(Under the care of an old timing
Rhyming....
Bitter....
Head splitting
Sitter)?
Marie Moldovan ©️ 2021

a thick fog of hyperventilated breath, microwaved dinners, and nail polish remover separates into two halves as my mother breaks through my bedroom
the creaking of the door always, without fail, pierces directly through my ears and into the part of my brain that knows how to be kind and pleasant

no mother, i didn't hear about the wreck on 288 today
no, i don't know if i can go grocery shopping tomorrow
no, i don't ******* care to be a part of this family

every picture of a sad-looking, round-faced, blonde pigtailed child in any photo album collecting dust on a shelf in my house has "victim" written underneath like a description of a particularly memorable event, photographed to document such a milestone
i never caught any fish
i never won a trophy
there was so much empty space

mother, i could've been a ballerina
i would have enjoyed learning an instrument
mother, i wish none of this happened either

i suppose you can't ask why someone is upset when their house burns down because they left an open flame too close to the curtain
it doesn't matter why everything you own has turned to ash, it just matters
when every birthday cake for every year seems like a post card from the future saying "wish you were here" it feels good to blow out the candles

yes mother, i am the curtains of the family
no, i don't want to be

I

That twitch in the schoolgirl’s eye
Isn’t caused by snowy mountains.
There’s Guildhall in her twisted lip.

II

I was of three minds.
Greta Thunberg took all of them
And cloaked them in a yellow hood.

III

A small part of the pantomime was never Greta’s style.
She has miles to go before she lets us sleep.

IV

Of the things schoolgirls hate
The sun is not among them.
The blackbird’s wings and the oil fields of Manitoba
Are one.

V

I do not know which to prefer,
The thought that they might one day bring out
Greta Thunberg bobbleheads
Or the fact that bobbleheads exist at all,
The fact that we’re ******
Or the fact that we’re enjoying it.

VI

An indecipherable cause.

VII

O pigtailed teens of Stockholm,
Please remember
What Wallace Stevens said
About birds of golden feathers
And of black.  

VIII

What is involved in what I know?
Like Socrates, I don’t know.
But it’s more than 99.9 per cent
Of climate scientists could ever dream
And less than a signpost
To the wrong city in the snow.

IX

When Greta sailed two weeks to New York
She was in a circle of close friends.
I bet they ate tinned kippers
And had those sweets the Swedish love.  

X

To cry out sharply is what we do
If we are lucky enough to cry.
And so I have more compassion
For Greta than you know.  
Some women have no time.
Their children dying
Takes up the best portion of the day.

XI

I can’t remember the part of the campaign trail
He rode over to tell a waiting crowd
How the size of his equipage
Compared to his small hands.
There are good reasons why Greta hates his guts.
This is not the best of them.

XII

The river is full of plastic.
The thermometer must be rising.

XIII

It is snowing
And it is going to snow.