What transformed the night
might have been
the jaybird squawking
or a night hawk stalking—
whatever riled a scorpion
claw and stinger, venomous
bullet to the boy.
Somewhere that night
in a story with dragons
twin sisters played xylophones
on icicles shattered
from the eaves.
Unheard under
swearing and sirens.
A woman with sunglasses
held a candle
as if to write his name
on air. He screamed
for his mother.
She cannot watch
replays but has made
a speech for television.
In stories of golden trees
with golden apples,
every other person wears
a disguise wrapped in
curse, leaves home
with unintended use
of force. Fate pulled
from birth. Kind people
may get second chances,
but not here, not this night.
No one gallops away on a golden horse.
Slow ambulance to hearse.
Flowers pile up
and votive candles too.
They always do.
We never see the people
who sweep up,
who smell slow decay
or chip run-away wax
from the curb. We do not
know the weight of their thumbs.
–
Tricia Knoll is an aging Vermont poet whose work appears widely in journals and nine full-length books or chapbooks. Her 2024 chapbook The Unknown Daughter contains 27 persona poems—voices of people who react to the Tomb of the Unknown Daughter, a kind of fairy tale in itself. When she moved 3,000 miles recently, her old, old book of Grimm’s fairy tales went with her. Website: triciaknoll.com
© 2024, Tricia Knoll
Halfway Down the Stairs 