You turn
a cataract-cloudy eye, and so I try
to ignore you, hangnail, even as
your words rise like a scar –
red, ruined, inflamed, far
from blame, as it
is my own doing,
my own ruin.
And so I turn
over a page, cold-sunshine books
pregnant with happy-ever-afters,
and laughter soaked into spines.
Write once-upon-a-times
for mice, and the dish
that ran away
from the spoon.
I hope you turn
over a new leaf, as you wear my grief
like a halo. Hurt that aches my teeth,
lies in your laurel wreath. Gold
for those that lose, and green,
green for those
that sigh beneath.
I watch you forget to turn
back again, glance over your shoulder
at me. Carousel-lover sees another,
wants to hold her, ore-struck
heart be mined,
mine be
You try to turn
the hour-hand, apples go sour
as hand-me-down songs,
and your threadbare words,
turn the leak in
the roof into
a shower.
I’ve turned
marionette for you, Pinocchio-prize
of a minute or two, and the paint’s
still wet, knees dry, before your
eyes drift to the end, even
now, as you wind
me up.
You’ve turned blind to me, so turn
over a page, over a leaf you turn,
even as you forget to turn
around and see me, turn
back time, turned
me into your
For those that are chained to carousels

3 thoughts on “Carousel”

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