Mercedes Lawry

She too dusty, Mama said.
Don’t play with her, too much
liquor in that house. Stay clear.

I watched out the window, her spinning
and hanging off the apple bough.
She humming, whispering to crows.
Why can’t I twirl and laugh with her?
We stay in the yard. She look nice enough.

There’s trouble in her eyes, Mama said.

I couldn’t see it. I watched her all afternoon
from behind curtains. She was sometimes
like a fairy. I expect she knows magic.
I would like to also know.

One day the police came in a commotion.
Then everything pulled out, put in a truck.
I don’t see her again.

Death in that house, Mama said. Didn’t I say trouble?

Was fairy-girl dead? Didn’t ask. I’ll just think
of her spinning and humming, gone
somewhere sweet, aching with light.