Once upon I wanted to be a fairy.
I bought myself a mask and you—
at the time I didn’t know your design—
a pickling jar. Grandma had said:
“What can be soaked, let water
sip. Add salt and time and wait.”
At grandma’s I’d spent happy kiddo
days. Sitting: me and her, and
god, I think. Eggy, the day. Melting
clarified butter’s in the pan, grandma’s
hands churning, cracked with time.
Across the street the electrician dawdles,
unhappy. Most of the town’s using
wood stoves for heat. Nearby
the hydroelectric dam purrs, the green
river buoyant and shirtless. It is 1988.
Of course you’re nowhere to be, or
found. I’m sent to storage to look.
In storage I become—a book!
Grandma lets god eat my egg.
It tickles, but at least I am
distracted, and no longer bound.