RUSTED INNOCENCE
A poem in response to the artwork of Alexandria Volle
“The moon tastes sweet”
while the key hangs
aloof from it’s shadow.
Rusted innocence pinned
to the corners.
Ripped and racked to wooden walls,
Panty-hose drape like desert shades
to amuse (or constrain) a dead moth.
We’ll never quite know how it liked
this wild home, or how it fluttered and flew
before pinned down in time by her
delicate art-driven hands.
Out wafts a mother’s perfume.
Looking back, a dollhouse
touched by the bower bird,
wool, lace, maps strewn
and placed, as if to say
“look, even strange, this is home”.
Some celtic-gothic recipes
are quietly whispered in tongues.
Meanwhile, down the road a ways
a new montage in enchanted wood:
A woven bag hangs from a branch
while a jar lurks below in the dark.
A ball jar, a bell jar, a glass jar, a spell jar...
A bag full of tricks and a witchy
gnarled stick— there’s a brewing
potential in stark.
Surprisingly,
time passes still.
In the beginning, apparently,
spring sings again:
Let's forget all our boxes
and face it.
