1-11 When The Door Opens

while I wait,
starlight in hand,
for the door to open,

in folds of fabric, intricate stitching,
on a pink dress, letters of love,
spelling out,

a once upon a time,

when the door opens,
first, she is, the one
with the smile, curly hair,
the place where angels first,
dared to breathe, she takes her
needle and thread, and sews
a love song, of whiskey and champagne,
layered and hidden in pink layers of punk fluff,
the dress becomes an ever after in blue, but
before she can finish,

the door opens a second time, and he, brings with him,
the smell of the tide, the rush of his big hands,
sewing reprimands and admonitions with green
and gray thread, pulling the bodice tighter, while she
of the smile and breath spins me round and round,
around my waist, refusing to dance, but remarking,
what a beautiful mess of pink I am wearing, he pulls tighter, I gasp,
breathless, dizzy, when,

the door opens a third time, the ambassador enters,
wearing a white crown, pink blush rising dawn on his cheeks,
when he sees me bent over, trying to breathe, he bows, pulling
me close with needles of fire and granite in his eyes, silver blades
cutting through my chest, ripping out the tender lining
with poetry and music in his laughter, placing his hand
curled into a fist, where my heart should be, opening his palms like a sparrow,
before

the door opes a fourth time, and she enters, slapping his hands away,
with glitter on her fingers, kissing me twice on each cheek, tear stains,
lining my eyes black, you are already beautiful, she wishes to me, before,
pulling out her, dusty needle and tan thread, weaving gold flakes into my eyes,
when,

bursting through the door a fifth time, the minstrels, the unicorns,
the bears, the fairies, the princes, the princesses, the entourage, the carousal,
in hats and heels, wine glasses, flutes, violas, laughter,
and music, the music, oh the music, rising and falling, sparkling, glittering,
filling the air, with movement, grace, spinning me, spinning me,
when he stops whispering in my ear, the one with the wicked smile, the jester, in the palm
of his hands, snow falling as some forgotten song,
taking out his silver needle, and silver thread,
weaving a pink falling waterfall of champagne on my head, he spins me around, slowly,
then faster, wolves baying at my heels, throwing me from one conversation to another,
a dance, a song, while the night, wild in his eyes,
laughs, howls, swirling the divas, hours in pink, rose, silver and white,

with the door wide open,
I am.

the lights fade, I sit down next to the fire,
kindled with silver sparkling in my hand,
the dress undone, glitter falling down my cheeks,
the last of the champagne spills from my glass,
when the dark of midnight gathers their souls around me,
one by one, kissing my cheek, happy birthday, love,
thirty six kisses,
till one,
is left,

I am shy. I look him in his brown questioning eyes, offering him one last dance,
but he kisses my forehead instead, and says silly girl, you forgot something,
from his cedar lined pocket he draws, with glass and crystal threads,
a slipper, placing it into my palm, then he bows,
disappearing into the corner of the room,
taking the shadows, and spinning them into his innocence, into straw, into gold,

while I wait, slipper in hand,
for the door to open.