January 17th, 2021
Deep in the forest in a flannel nightdress,
a little girl lingers without much on
her chest, shame in her heart, much to confess.
Here she is safe, completely at rest. Gone
the behemoths of yesteryear. Her cheek
on chenille, her brain bereft of all fear
inside this night sans starlight except a meek
constellation of which faithfully appears
from a bedside nightlight replacing a moon
which made her weep more nights than swoon. Tonight
she looks no father than this light of her room
which is not a metaphor — means to write.
No beseeching big teeth inside these woods —
it ends with her pen like make believe should.