April 2021
Pauli Dutton
pauli.dutton@gmail.com
Bio Note: I was a librarian for forty years. What I really wanted to do was sing, dance, and write. Luckily, my library let me host programs where the public and I could do these things, and no one objected when I sang my reports to the Town Council. Publications include Altadena Literary Review, the Cherita Journal, and When the Virus Came Calling, an anthology.

After School Flight

I beat Ronny to the corner again today.
His pitiful legs will never surpass
these third-grade supersonic wings.
I touch down at Carol Sue’s,
just in case. 
I love Carol Sue, but not today.
When she says she won’t fly with me,
I turn dragon, shoot a little fire,
whip my tail too close to her chimney.
 
I drag my whipper around the corner 
to the sourgrassed, dandelioned lot 
I love to blow and breathe,
and a house, I don’t know enough
to be ashamed of yet.
Mom’s still locked up in the looney bin.
Has been for years.
 
Five headless headstones nod
from the living room chairs,
tremble like quaking faults.
They like it quiet.  I don’t.
I say, Rise, you goblins. 
Rise, you witches.
Rise and fly with me.
I say, Play you witches.
Play, you goblins.
Play your bones for me.
I flick a finger toward the kitchen table.
A keyboard appears. 
Skeleton arms float above,
pound those black and whites 
into a fast-paced Chopsticks.
 
We barnstorm the place.
We maim. We smash. We shatter
every object that is not us.
When there’s nothing left to destroy,
we dive into a crash landing,
dead as an unloved dragon. 
It’s quiet. 
The headstones are happy.
©2021 Pauli Dutton
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