I’ll collect pebbles for teeth, oak leaves, and feathers that fall under swing sets. Where do people go
to find dust these days? In the swamps where alligators drift under tree roots and turn into logs, the stones
are worshipping Medusa as their goddess. When wolves lament at the moon they catch the sun in their teeth
and bite down like it’s an overripe nectarine with the juice dripping into California pine forests.
The pink girl is woven tulle, she’s glass, she’s sheer, silvery, wilted silken, an open book shorn of paper. The pink girl is a paper doll.
Momma married the android man, hands that crank the lids from pickle jars. His chin is rough with sawdust, his teeth straight and cool as window panes. His frown is built from wooden wheels, and chains. Crunching numbers and measuring skirt-lengths, he creaks on by.
In the schoolyard the boys paint themselves black and blue, conjure swords from fence posts, shrugging off their ties, the years, and gears they’re running towards.
Their footprints trace the edge-seams of the old woman’s yard. She’s got a rocking chair that wobbles side-to-side. One more year and one more year, the boys grow old and disappear.
Spin her, spin her. Spin ‘er, spinner, spinster-- Her backyard scrapyard’s silk and rust. She sits, her needles clicking, knitting clocks, and dolls, and dust.
-- Clarissa Grunwald is a junior undergrad at Franklin and Marshall College in Lancaster, PA. She has previously been published in BlazeVOX, Drunk Monkeys, and Fickle Muses, and is currently working as a student blogger for IES abroad. You can follow her on twitter @cmgrunwald or send her an email at firstname.lastname@example.org.