Utopia’s Demise

Utopia’s Demise
Oh, Pamela, I’ve not forgotten how
we dressed our dolls, the bonnets knitted, each
one tied with ribbons fixed, the plastic brow
that framed their sleepy lids, the way we’d preach
to them pretending they’d done wicked things,
your room a home of stars and storybooks,
red licorice from Thrifty’s, pocket rings
you’d hung from sconces lit, your crochet hook
for sewing blankets in your trundle drawers
with feathered down, old roller skates long worn
beneath a closetful of pinafores,
your hair pinned up with tendrils barely clipped
behind your ears, and how we’d brush each other’s
ringlets till our curls held the sunlight’s reign,
the eager way we waited for our mother’s
yes, consent to board the weekend train,
and how we’d one day vanish, no goodbyes—
we might have known to never close our eyes.


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