pixie dust

my dreams
hold pixie dust
sprinkled over
seven years of
giving way,
dust swept
away by
stopping words
blown in
just as it settles.

he always said
his girls
scalped their
heads after
being with him.

my scalping
stripped away
the last fiber of
giving way,
leaving me
simply as
i am.

i am
the eight year
old child
that every woman
remembers -

my girl
clinging tight to
tree tops for
hours as they swayed -
butterflies
jumping in
her not yet
developed breast,
dancing
in anticipation
of the fall.

an angel
sensual and sweet,
tells me my child
is my core.
she takes me by the waist,
leans her head on my shoulder
and asks about the
fading rainbow i saw today.

i tell her the
secrets of his eyes
and how i cried
when he left,
tasting tears
i don't - won't - can't
understand,
and how i
wonder if pixie dust
settles around him
or is blown
away by
his winds.