Miss Understood
Miss Understood awoke,
blooming spiderleggy eyes
on their dark lily pads.
She is a Boy Collector,
stashing them in the secret cubbard in her closet,
beneath the luggage, diaries, and photos.
It opens upward from the floor.
I know because I'm one of them.
She gives all of us just enough water to survive,
but not enough to grow.
We are dwarfed and neglected,
but feel teased and important when we're fed.
Such is the life of a boy, collected.
But on this morning when she came with water
she found the closet door ajar,
and in her cubbard empty boyless space.
But she looked closer,
and there was just one item -
a dusty spear carved from toothpick.
The pierced pure heart at its tip was hers to keep,
and she did.
Steam me. Curl your toes. You are it. Make a fist out of us. Drip your eyes into mine. Scratch me. Let me hear you do it. As our yarns entwine over plains of pale important flesh.
There beneath those lids do hide,
a cache of pearls inlayed by time.
Glass hands rub for warm
and cold sparks fall onto the water.
The black silk flows
reflecting Amazon Day.
The sparks sink and drift like eyes of subordinates.
They watch for hunting.
Mischief sleeps under sun in the jungle.
Don't be a mouse, be a lion
