Once Upon a Time

At the edge of the cypress forest,
stood
a yellow clapboard house,
     and upstairs, a closet 
under the eaves. One afternoon
I recall I led 
several other children
   inside, 
as in the first chapter
         of a fairytale,
    and I thought we 
were free 
to
undress—
to undo our parent’s 
   constraints that had
                    formed us: 
untie the laces, 
step out of the hems, let it all 
fall to the floor:
headbands, belts, 
     T-shirts.
But I was mistaken. 
             Humid summer air
                      pressed upon us, 
                         the chain to the
overhead lightbulb
                           slightly swayed,                       
with a jingle.
The shadows didn’t have time
to lengthen.
            One child walked away.
                          Another.

*

            Is the memory real.
      Did I ask children under
the eaves to undress?
And if so,
       who was this 
                  girl.

*

        There were always 
at least two of us.
          One prayed to god 
    and the other 
            lit things on fire. 
                  Prayed to god although
   she didn’t entirely believe. 
                  Prayed to god 
to transform 
        the other girl. But always 
              there were two. She
       would be you and 
              you her.
          Now I wear 
                         my mother’s 
spiraling ring, 
                but the emerald enamel 
wears off, leaving only 
            a gold skeleton. 
                  You realize now the girl 
         has left or been left 
behind.
                            The one who 
shoplifted, stole, and masturbated
             on her father’s couch—
                                 always about to be
caught. My hands now, 
                 transparent
       as an old woman.
                        I think the girl
         took parts of me with her, 
        the fleshy parts,
     the strange, and 
                       unaccountable. 
She did not leave shiny pebbles 
           to find our way back.

*

Cryptomeria boughs tangle 
the canopy. 
                I meet my shadow
       in the understory, 
in the echoing wood—
where
the sharp
                          spiraling leaves needle.
                  The edge is what I have,
      like splinters.