Anastasia

These images I collect,
hoping to feel. We still
believe in haunted things
that prey upon children.
Even the umbrellas
make me sad. I yearn
for diminutive women
to help me cross over
to the light. Stand
in shadows, pray for storms
of pebbles. We throw
ragged tennis balls
into closets. Shrink
into mice so the adults
won’t find out. But they’re
too fevered to notice
the stains on our shoes.
The crackling of my bones
as I tumble down the staircase.
Tin foil covers all
the windows, the winter months
transparent as hungry mosquitoes.
I crouch beneath the ledge,
searching for something grotesque.
Wonderful. Like monsters.
Like love.