Where Childhood Went
The teeth sold to the fairies
are tombstones in the graveyard of the fireflies.
By their cold caught light
you can make out the big house submerged
in the backyard creek,
thought-minnows spinning in motes in the attic.
The lovely young parents, so long preserved,
are showing signs of rot;
the kitten named Princess, signs
of invisibility. But look, the old dolls
are doing well; they smile and smile.
And the witch? Darling, the witch was real.
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