Bakers White with Flour

She goes now into the shadowlands of my tearful breakdown and I follow encased in a poor recollection, panels of denial and dread.  I see her at play and in the way she holds her hands just so around her face.  Pirates sail across her wake and the water rises through our house floating the pots and pans into the neighbor’s teeth.  Oh, I can hear the other kids chasing down her name.  We are all the same in these dim halls, where mirrors abide, yet I know not what to do and I feel so alone, so ashamed.  I never protected her from the demons in the sand, the ones squeezing her form and I  left her there in the room overhead, circling a distant star like a million pieces of shattered, cold moon.  Please deliver me if you can.  Take me as a spirit, a wisp of what I am, and place me through your needle and into the light, away from the shadowlands.  Can you do this for me, one last time?  The bakers are coming, marching in step, white with flour, singing her song, singing her name and they have spoons ready to whip my eyes into bitter bread.

Dedicated to Jan, Aaron, and Kari.

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