Dear Belle
From you I know | all blue dresses are wishes for yellow
gowns that twirl in captive arcs | a mezzo-soprano’s
gasp can sweep the cobwebs off novel spines, caress
dusty picture frames, soften the hearth | only portraits
and books should be touched, never roses | only the mirror
configures my concept of other | never mention Mother |
I must protect my gullible father | putti exist in patterns,
frescoes, interludes | snowballs are a conduit of duets |
I can fight wolves with a tree at my back | tend his wounds
after he saves me from the pack | if I gallop fast enough
through the gate up the stairs (call it love—like mirrors,
we are allowed to lie) I can save him, too | I can kiss him
first, turn flakes to sparks on his thighs, gasp, watch
him fly | I can make love to a beast if he’s dying.
