Peter Pan Loses his Ability to Fly
My parents left me
to defend myself with only sticks
and a few bad words.
I open my milk-tooth mouth,
I’ve not even the jaw to bite.
The inside of me is dust. I want
good fortune to stroke me
with a mother’s bed-time touch.
I keep waiting.
My dreams are full of ghouls,
angry fang-tooth dogs, and dark
corridors lit by just one flame.
If only I knew good things, then
my cottoned feet would lift
from the rubble of the earth,
the split and splintered timber.
If I was happy, and not scared
I would rise like a bird
the island below my kingdom
and me, king for a day.