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Fairy Poems
by Laura Madeline Wiseman Discount Fairies I want to tell them I didn’t understand humans. Our sister-in-law kept her home a magazine—bright walls, tiled kitchen, plush carpet, not a speck of dust, items chosen to match décor, theme, holiday. Give Thanks stamped on paper like prayer flags, but Midwestern middleclass. Doorknobs festive with belled ribbons, end tables arranged with carved snowmen, hand-painted sleds, stuffed animals holding signs--Santa stops here. All the social media words on gratitude, darlings, achievement, there’s her girls as snow fairies, ice skating fairies, sunny poolside fairies, never dark fairies, weird sisters, spiders. I hate that she died. I hate that beyond the knack of home-keeping, she had a knack for making anyone feel small—trendy clothes, new cars, best schools for her girls—for saying the backhanded compliment, You look good, as if there was a moment in the past when you had not looked good or you’d surprised her with your look of goodness when clearly you goodness is a lie. We never bought name brand cereal, drove Fords, wore the trending. Football games didn’t rule the TV we didn’t have. We ate carrots from twenty-five pound bags. I loved her girls. I searched Walmart bins for fairy briefs, combed dollar stores for fairy coloring books, hunted the used bookstore, buying up every fairy title. I looked good because I was good, even in our neighborhood of Oxy squatters, our grocery purchases of discount bags of bruised apples and wilted greens. I tried with your grief you wore like anger—locked shoulders, pinched mouth, the way you turned on every good thing between us. I was good. I tried, even if I stepped from your reaching hands. Fairy Toy Hoarder I never wanted to open the fairy boxes, to move bags from car to house, to carry shipping box from front door to the kitchen table, to remove presents from xmas tree, to get out round-tipped scissors or philips screwdrivers for assembly and instructions in too many languages, print too small to read. I liked everything in its original packaging, to hold the bright boxes and trace the plastic, catching the overhead light’s glint. I liked their dustless existence, twisty ties at waist, advice--Collect them all! from a tag or the warning, choking hazard. I liked that if I never used a knife, they stayed new, a gift never ready for a shelf’s display. You said I should sell them, create a dealer’s account online, work a table at a collector’s fair, unfold a lawn chair and sit the drive all Saturday, girding against my neighbors small talk of weather, husker football, the price of food, small reciprocity of questions returned as they dig through my unopened fairy boxes, my fairy tees with the tags still on, my fairy books in perfect jackets, spines never cracked. You can crack them open and read them, you said, toeing a pile. Please don’t, I said. You swung to face me, but I refused to face back, refused the fight gauntlet thrown, refused to let you touch me, refused your gaze by locking the bathroom door, the bedroom door, the office door. I went downstairs to fold the sheets. When you came down, fussing by the electric box where all the computer cords go, I went upstairs to wash dishes by hand. When you came up to fuss at the kitchen where the utility bills collect, I went out to the garage to sort recycling. I didn’t want to get into it then. I don’t want to now—why I don’t call, don’t text, don’t answer email. I hoard unopened fairy toys. I like the fairies getting ready to nap in trees, the ones ready to fly, the rubbery of promise, the hope of packages, Bring home magic. Fairy America I was told Beware, not be aware, but I just wanted to be. America, before I met you, how rich the world. Gas cost less than a dollar, two liters of pop, fifty cents on sale, CD rates more than interest. I never liked my neighbors, the way they made me feel dirty. I like frugal shopping, buying food at discount stores, cutting the toothpaste open when there are no more squeezes left, to whirl my bristles inside for a week. They eye me like a buyer to be assessed. She crosses her arms like I’m an easy target to make a sale. He stops talking when the sale is clearly made. I want to be more than consumer, more than how much I can be made to spend. I want to stand among them as equals, all of our pockets empty, no need to fill. America, as a girl I stole. I pocketed charm bracelets from the mall with my friend. She shared the seaweed she pocketed from the Asian store. At her apartment, her father was quiet, her mom quieter, the decorations loud, different than our own—turning lights, velvet, glass. She liked my mom better, always asked to come over. She stood in our apartment with her head bowed, waiting to be told to peel carrots, fold the rags, sweep our concrete slab of porch. I should’ve bowed my head, waiting. I was never a good daughter. I wanted to go garage sale shopping with pennies, to search the hedge apples for fairies, to roll down the apartment hill shrieking. America, I’ve been unkind in my humankind-ness. I laughed at the mean woman in Taos who didn’t like my sparkly tights. I laughed at those who heckled me in school, those who heaved me into the air as they shook the shoulders of my secondhand coat, zipper fairy charm dangling. I’m addressing you. I crushed on my Spanish teacher, the big-eyed, dark-haired woman with svelte curves in bright outfights. I only had her for one year. After I’d moved on to Spanish II, she hung herself in her garage, like her son had done the year before. America, when will there be enough food? When will we stop deciding to die? America, all the blocks are empty. All the men are filling feeders, all the women dusting. There has to be something we can do. Are we each America all alone? I have some food, pockets full of plastic charm. I’m just trying to be. Can you be okay with that, America? |
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