Do not ask who did this to her, / who shattered her to her core. // Do not ask what she remembers / of the larger self she’s lost.
Forget he held me in his arms / before our burnt bones shared an urn. // Forget the past and let us rest. / Step up. Bow. Take your own turn.
Life / goes on. // The cats still demand their food, / the garbage trucks still rumble by, / your throat still craves cold liquids.
Who needs a mirror with eyes / like that—eyes that make you trust / your own bones, that know your form / is beautiful because it can dance.
Here in the old / Enchantments / you can find remnants / of her still, / her smile a ragged / and torn tarn shore, / her perfume / the come-gone scent / of slapdash rain.
For me, the grim realities of flight did not negate The Little Prince— / instead, I became more certain / that everything Saint-Exupéry said was true: / that same sincere voice, that never-lost child’s wonder / at being alive.