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My mother never told me
about the fairies sleeping in the tulips,
but I still heard echoes of their chatter
on the quiet summer nights.
And so the girl braided my hair
that day on the grass
when she asked me why I'd double knot my shoes.
She was barefoot, I should add,
though I'd never realized until she did.
She told about the fairies,
and I knew I'd never say a word
to my mother, or the tulips
would surely die by her hand.
"We came from towns
of unmarked gravesites,
or at least I've been told.
We wear shoes and white dresses,
never callused on our feet,
with heavy curtains,
oh, and fear of god",
I said to her,
sure that she'd understand.
She told me of the lambs
she'd lay with in hot summer sun,
sisters racing across woodland trails,
beetles becoming friends with the worms
in the ground.
My mother never told me
about the fairies in the tulips,
or the girls who climbed trees,
crept in the mud unearthing gold.
She never told me little girls
could be ferocious and filthy,
barbarous and genius,
disastrous and happy.
so, so
very happy.