| "Nine years old in our secret forest. Lucy catches up with me. She's dramatic for her age. We reach the clearing. It's a stage with rows and risers, wings of marshweed. Fallen oak tree for a bench to watch her end her tragic play. Clever wench or foreign queen; she's mindful of the paper costumes fit for the final scene. In mid soliloquy, a spotlight from heaven drops like a windsail cut free of its mast--she only has time for a single gasp. White, sterile, heavy light. The clearing bright with heat. I trip before her quickly rising feet; land by the stick she'd painted as a magic wand. The cloud seals, tilts. I chase it until it moves over the pond where the ground sinks. It left, and left all the stars to blink. That was the story. I stopped bathing. Slowly grew some fur. I was asked to repeat--asked if I was positively sure she hadn't gotten lost in the woods. So they told me (Is it true) that I was young (you've been to rehab) children vanish everyday (twice since 62?), you know? But I'm much better now, and I've got a job. I know, now, that it was swamp gas. Nature playing tricks. Swamp gas and blind chance. Crazy circumstance. |