in the fairy tale in which I live

It's sunny in Idaho and the teens are getting pregnant again.

The women's heads (severed of course)
make predictions about the lottery that turn out right
often enough that we all throw our money
for the golden carp to eat (they are also, interestingly,
the severed heads of women.)

What's been going on in the castle?
Strobe lights like winged monkeys.
The stables empty, the fire in the kitchen, ash.
Someone dug the moons out of vegetable bed.

And then it rains on Cinderella bound

to water the ferns taking over
the winding path. The fronds,
yellow as baby ducks, starts to unfurl. And her

with that newly sharpened machete.

Deborah Bacharach


To Hold Him

I once knew a boy who came to school
sometimes. After he failed, after his parents
kicked him out and there was no Shaolin Monastery
not really, not anymore, he cried
mylar balloons. His rose from his eyes, tapped
the window, rested on the frame.

He should have drifted away.

Are you suicidal?
No.
Are you homicidal?
I'm Sicilian.

I once knew a boy who walked through
the market in Sicily. He refused
to be lovers. At dusk he watched bats
circle above the park, offered
strawberries to strangers. I bit,
found the usual prizes: a boat ride in a volcano,
dry stones.

To get to my home, lay down two layers
then accept three more.
You'll know it by the girl
with the pink kite, the dying poppies,
the glorious exploding poppies
and their fine full pods. Shake them.
I give you permission.

Deborah Bacharach