She is buried.
Pressed by the weight of muffling mattresses,
Small and insistent, the knot in my neck come morning,
Dreams of half-eaten marzipan passions
Lying dormant under strata of excuses
She is buried, alive.
Is that all that is left, a tiny seed of wild life poking into my slumber?
Don’t give up, little one.
I’ll remember I’m a princess.
