Fairies Could Go Either Way

Her hair a short and spiky mop of brown, like the rich earth of the forest.

She shivers in her baggy, navy blue hoodie, digging out lighter and cigarettes.

A drizzle of February rain falls on The Strip, lights of banality, useless night.


Hood up, soothing cigarette in her mouth, she walks down to Tyson Park.

Closest woods, and the dark and rich soil, a fairy kingdom half-remembered.

Her mother told her her brown was like the dark soil of that lost kingdom.


And she knows The Devil has walked those woods, and spilled some blood.

And she knows angels whisper in playing children not rotted by pop-culture.

And she knows the fairies could go either way on a bright summer afternoon.


A cigarette and some rain, very noir, in a city too much like every other now.

Even hear, just down from bars and chain eateries, the never ending interstate,

she can still count to the secret star, her fairy mother made just for her.

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