Little girl, little liar, little house on the mountain,
can you hear me in the hole you’ve dug? A grave
ginormous as a valley, a family tree chopped down
and cut into paperwork.
On the dotted line they signed you over, where
a home became the pentacle of sorrow and
additional rooms were built as tombs to keep your
spirit locked away.
Even with miles between us, you seem to stick
around and haunt me everywhere I go. In the diner,
in the back of the kitchen and sometimes in the
They always ask where you’ve been and whatever
happened to little Christina Crawford and the damn
wire hangers. I’ve tried to hang them in the closet,
In the little cupboard I use to live, a place full of
Sunday school memories and infant expectations,
a little boy to carry the name and a girl to spit one out
for generations to come.
As a matter of fact, I believe you beat me to this
and called upon the stork. His name is Jody and I’ve
never held his little body or felt the joy of being his
Or am I an uncle? Is it all just make believe?
Like rubber babies, little cribs and cranberry juice
for blood. I’m not jealous; however, I do envy your
For sometimes I wish I could never take anyone
into consideration, throw them to the side and curse
their names. It must make it easier to view them as
No feelings, no regret, plastic, hollow bodies to keep
a dress on and die happy knowing they’re unimportant;
it must be absolutely marvelous to be so deeply in
With a mirror, you only see yourself and nothing in the
background; it’s all white noise and the music inside,
like whistling in a cavern, A tune for West Virginia, where
your mother never sings.
She’s dead, you know, on the inside and so are the
letters she sent full of what you inherited: An empty mine,
no gems, no diamonds, only crimson sucking bats who
hang by their feet.
Candles with dull flames, blowing themselves out and
making wishes on coins dropped in bottomless pits.
You better be glad I have a soul, or else I would
happily push you down.
Where the pennies have fallen is where my father’s
sweat has accumulated, along with my mother’s tears
and the shattered pieces of China from a rampant
The little girl you abandoned, a Taurus whose horns
have grown long and hooves that stomp the floor, she
can hold a grudge better than you can hold marbles in
your dirty hands.
Can you show me on the doll where the needles were
stuck? Little evil, little wart, have you ever considered
that the pain in a pincushion heart is the work of your
own twisted hoodoo?
Who do you have left to blame? Certainly not God,
certainly not the steeple, the people, their knees, the
hypocrisy and the shunned, broken rainbow faded grey
breaking its back.
When is your birthday? I will send a gift box full of rocks,
locks, dead flocks and wasted clocks. Bashed open, gears
exposed and hands slicing cold shoulders. Perhaps I will
wrap in hugs.
March to the end days, bring the April showers, let their
heavy clouds block your long face, long frown and drown
out the whining noise of children wearing black as they
stand in a circle.
It’s the death day party you were never allowed to attend,
the huge festival dedicated to your ghostly image sitting
at the table and laughing about frivolous wonders and
sugar and spice.
There’s nothing nice left to say and sometimes I wish
they would’ve carved me a brother from such lumber,
a real boy, whose nose would grow if a lie were to be
beckoned, I reckon.
Not the ego, not the sponge of self-absorbance, but a
sibling that could pinkie promise and accept my Roman
nature. I would burn down your tree to grow another
if given a chance.
The bedtime stories above our heads when we slept
in beds are tied up and I long to exorcise all of you from
my body, the mind and the gripping spirit and regurgitate
every “I Love You.”
If there were only a way to lobotomize each and every
part of the brain in order to forget, I would skip the
waiting room and ask the doctors to put me under,
to chisel you gone.
Imagine a world in which you never inhabited or ruled
a sordid kingdom under a thumb. Instead, my very own
keeps the levees from breaking again and again and
holds back monsoons.
Little dutch boy, little bundle of sticks, the child inside
me has grown tired of your frigid poltergeist shifting from
one chamber to the next and slamming doors as if they
were doll house.
I suppose this is why the homicidal torches are drawn
to me, because I never kissed their embers until you
vanished like a saint when Jesus opens the sky and
Satan gives out his number.
You might be the boulder’s daughter, the child of the hills
and a mad girl who wrote “Safe” on her arm. It can even
be said that you’re an abbey without a prayer ora lamb
in a Kool-Aid cult.
But understand I am a raging ocean, a hurricane and
a roaming thunderhead. Understand that in my clover
eyes you’re a nobody and that I will never be your