The recording she sent me, of our old stories of private gods and our valorous children,
has the cold wind of roaring February blowing her straight brown hair and her soft and
She sits in the field, our once mighty and eternal kingdom that has faded now, just a field,
as we have grown up, and the tales just slip away forever, you cannot hold them close,
cannot remain that child, even if you never grow up.
My tattering and navy blue hoodie, the one I gave her when I left for the war, from
Weeki Wachee springs, our last childhood adventure, all of sixteen, all out of grace,
the summer when mermaids were taking us down.
She wears it, and her t-shirt of the painting of Diane the Huntress, and blue jeans and
black boots, steel toed for her job, as she sits with our leather bound book of tales,
our own private holy writ of gods now lost.
Her soft, dark eyes cast down, light brown hair blowing over her face, the wind the edge
of tears in her voice as it swirls it up and whips the gossamer like spider webs in the gale,
ripping apart to send to the ancient kingdoms.
I watch this, laying down in my bunk, on my aging smartphone, still good enough for us,
and the working she is sending, of the brave monarchs we once were, the gods who adored us,
and the children we made out of dreams and voices.
I am away at the war, and her, with her mental illness, stayed behind, and she sends her magic,
her voice, our dreams, to me to protect me and anoint me and keep me safe, from friend and enemy,
and The Red Dragons that eats up children’s hearts.
Reaching the end, she closes the book, closes her eyes, says sacred words I cannot hear or pronounce,
and then looks into her little camera as if to look me in the eye, and smiles, beautiful and sad,
then says there will be another child coming from as last night together, this one in the usual way.
She turns off the camera, I turn off the video, and sit in the dark, the stars in the barracks window,
the stars all secret gods and valorous children that has been lost but still light the night and the dark,
and ours watch over us even know, in the war that will be The Red Dragon’s finally victory.
Amen to mad days, and the ones left behind. Amen to brave tales, and our loss that makes us sweet.
Amen to her, and what might yet be.