Real and Pretend
Nightmare and Dream,
Cinderella and the evil Queen
roled up as One,
both good and evil twin.
One believes in Love,
Other believes in Sin,
It’s where the tragedy begins.
Making dreams spark and vibrate true
she builds candied cardboard gingerbread doll houses,
recycles half-dressed dawn dolls
reclaimed from dumpsters,
all her treasured finds
eventually become mine.
I am the youngest baby
shaman of the family,
who always ages backwards
to the infinite Wisdom,
the Power of the Small.
But Sister has Second born power
stronger even than the First
Aspiring to be the best regardless of the order
and her ambition runs straight into the dead sun.
Impoverished like a lost nun
She becomes the dark one
her silloutte eclipsing velvet holograms
behind curtains training me to survive
through laughter attack sudden shock.
Her feet sweep under doorways
stealing time, space and sanity,
gliding mirrored glass panes
to spy on my laid bare secrets
like a lake edged underneath
wooden doors watching me
to catch my undoing nakedness
leaving stray clues
of wicked Hide and Seek.
Her beastly wants to be found out.
Her mirror watchful,
prison guard gaze
that she was afraid of me,
sibling jealousy and rejection.
I was her reminder of innocence
to take, bake and devour,
pure as Snow White’s haunted
Child of Light Power.
In troubled, generations of wilderness,
our home was half-shelter half-prison.
A firelight of ancestors’ regret,
warning us in thunder storms not to forget,
Leave, while you can still be reborn.
But I was spared child sex
slavery and incest,
because our Savior Brother intervened,
like lightquake thunder power,
He protected my child bright light
rescued me from a future lifetime of night
dungeon locked, through closeted doors
of orchestrated touching.
When she was 12 or 13
and I was 6 or 7,
she knew everything that
I couldn’t yet imagine.
Shame flew out deviled and exposed,
“What are you doing!” He shouted and
forever stopped the abuse,
And he disappeared humbly,
never making more of it
than what it was
never mentioning it again
because he was the oldest,
the diplomat, the savior son.
The things I’ll never comprehend
go hand in hand with forgiveness,
that turns death, shame and darkness
into crystallined memory pain
in capsules gilded with gold
flowing with hope and sorrow
into tomorrow’s raining karmic flowers.