A Children’s Story

Again, an ousted child or orphan happens onto a den.

It happens then. Invitation by faun or badger to rest from 

mayhem, undress to white ruffle. 

Where the tea in its tin gets shook into tarnished teapot

fetched from on tiptoe in an off-kilter kitchen.

Cakes with cream and jam are presented (please, delicious,

yes, thank you). Manners are everything. Woolens dry

before the fire’s cauldron. This is the slumber where nothing

happens. The creature-wife wears an apron,

the meek husband glasses. This is the pause in the plot 

where I’ve lifelong returned. Whenever I bend to the cat, asking,

How can I help? I’m in it, intuiting her needs 

with gentleness. I tell this story. My therapist says, 

Like a parent. The rain’s changing dramatically

to snow, making the threshold impassable.

Weft of fur in my pocket, I spy speckled beans and cider,

thick brown bread and yellowest butter. Mice

are sleeping on extra slices, the ladybugs in matchbooks. 

It’s blizzarding and will for days. I can smile, nod, 

offer simple phrases and am treated by strangers

as innocent. The safest I’ve ever been. The room’s foggy

with kettle steam, the pages damp as I turn and turn, reading 

in peace on a loveseat that at night becomes my bed.