Not Sleeping

 

Cinder girl does her household chores

and keeps her mouth shut. Her sisters

have gone to the church where all the

angels are made of stone. The gods

of yellow have long ago receded to

blackness. She can only conjure them

from memory, can only wipe the glass

windows clean with a rag that gets

dirtier with every swipe. She sweeps

away hands and ears on the floor.

Doll parts, she convinces herself.

And what little love she has

will teach us a lot about hate.

The magic mirrors begin

to sprout inside the rooms

in a house where there are no keys.