Every Saturday night, 
the girls once again don 
the crowns, but looped 
round (and round and round)  
their arms as hula hoops
spun in a whirl of 

War stories are told and 
fairytales spun, too, 
and the rescued dragons 
know just what to do 
with the cast-off 
(ridiculous) high 
-heeled shoes 
(they’re delish.) 

They also make a fine 
dish of elegant gowns 
and they spangle themselves
in jewels and jade 
and unstrung pearls. 

At moonrise, they howl 
(the dragons, the girls) 
and thank the sky 
and their whole new wide 
world that freedom is sung 
in bare feet and loose lungs 
and the echo of voices 
in trees. 

Tomorrow, they’ll have happy 
-ness hangovers, and take 
their tea in bed 
with satisfied smiles 
and the occasional inelegant 
s n e e z e. 


In November, we poem. Catching up today, backwards.

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