What did she actually complain about
That red hooded girl.
No more weekly visits, bringing food,
No more questions of
Big toes, a bent back,
No more long distances covered by
Short phone conversations
Cutting their way through lines of trees,
Weeds and webs.
Your voice still so clear.
The wolf came a long time ago.
I hide from winter in your sheepskin coat.
I walk past often,
Licking the polished window that divides
Me from a pink hat;
Too expensive and expansive,
Too luring to ignore.
I tried it on once, and it suited
My pale skin wonderfully,
Brought allure to my chin,
Flushed me with life, and still
I thought, perhaps
It was not right, not sane, not for now, not for me.
What hat would like to be
Locked up and hidden?
Too upsetting a colour. And then colours fade,
Grow pale, and a pale pink
Would turn my skin grey. So I said,
Closed my eyes and left, heading home
To my family. Perhaps later, but then
My grandmothers wore dark blue or harmless pastels.
I desire pink.
The snake twists and bites
Itself in the tail. Deformed
The shape is a heart.
Or so we say. I blew it.
It squeaks as it is caressed,
Or under duress.
As you strike out,
From empty air
My spit explodes all over.
