The princess and the knight hold hands

Here in the land of discontent

you survived.

What a wonder

how you sparkle 

when so much of your light had been lost. 

Did you find shelter in some decrepit story from our childhood? 

Like Alice. 

Like so many others. 

When you're here 

I feel your fear 

like a deep thudding drum 

like wild open eyes 

like the sound of a gun 

and I don't know for certain

that you are safe here. 

You come to me in whispers and then 

a bang. 

And you pull at the edges of your sweater in a kitchen that feels like reprimand.

An echo. 

Of a time when you were hunted for sport. Of times when you still are. 

Where is your sister? The one who brings you in close. She gives you her hand and says, "you are plentiful and wanted." 

She has hair like spun gold that reminds you of basking in the summer sun. 

Her fingers feel like tent poles, 

something solid to hold onto when you are laid flat. 

Her face a thin line to others 

and to you, a smile like giggling under blankets in the cold of December. 

Does she wear armor, this older girl who looks like what others told you a boy was? 

Yes. Made from the dishes you vaguely recall. Was this the same wooden spoon you ate cookie dough off of? 

Is this the bowl that held the heaping pasta, passed around the table?

What is it doing here, you wonder, 

eyes flashing. 

What are you doing here, sister, who never was?