|Darkening Ruby Slippers inside a Museum|
The idea of those slippers should
do cart wheels, but instead
they give off
the kept feeling of dirty frilly silk
of a used coffin.
One of the only surviving
relics of Dorothy
is like cutting my feet on jagged
or pedaling on a tricycle stuck
in the mud.
The shape of their frail brilliance is overturned
fine china teacups.
They are captured under glass
like a tarantula in a pickling jar.
outstretched thought is a trampoline
with giant moth holes
bitten into it.
I watch the fairy tale diminish
into a thousand prayers
whispered on rosary beads for the dead.
It's scrubbing every memory
of a yellow brick road
with steel wool on the insides of my skull
turning it blistering white.
They get dark and different
not just scuffed,
but real life grinding into them
with wear and tear
of bitter age
the taste of vinegar.
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