Moonchild

She found me, not
the other way around. Whisper-
soft as butterfly wings, her feet
bare on the loam, her sigh
the wind on my cheek. I followed her,
seeking
–what, I didn’t know–
asking
for something to hold onto
through the burden
of my grief; I followed
her as a child
follows a fairy,
or an old woman
a memory, reached
the shore of the ocean, salt
fingers on my skin, siren
waves calling, but already
she was rising: up, up,
into the gathering
dusk, glowing pale
as the moon.

Death

was never something I considered, exactly–
more like a friend who lived next door. Death
woke up every morning
at the same time, or sometimes
slightly after, waved
at me from their window and I
waved back, uncertainly; Death
was always there when the rest of the world
was too far away
to remember; Death
could hear through the walls when I screamed
or cried, knew that I knew that they were there
if I wanted them; Death
sang me lullabies over my parents’
destruction, whispered that they would give me freedom,
if I never found it for myself. Death
waited, eyes full of love, ready to catch me
when I fell, waiting only for a yes
to carry my home.

Toys