Changeling Lullaby

Hum-ho, little imp, sink into your quilt—

The mean, freckled girl is tallow and bone,

like each feral creature you’ve ever known,

and with time she will wither and wilt.

Hum-hey, weensy elf, snuggle out of the chill—

The cruel, gangly boy is bruised and alone,

like each wounded cur you’ve ever known,

that gimps with a limp and a lilt.

Here no one has swords or fancier clothes

to slice you to slivers and tear you to tatters,

or point out your snub, crooked nose.

Hum-hee, gentle moppet—here none of it matters—

so turn off the lights and dream the next chapter

of Fairyland’s days while you doze.

Fairyland’s dazed while you doze, my nymph.

They need you to rule as their sovereign queen,

while the satyrs dance and the banshees keen,

you can hold court and rest in repose.

Not a princess with dewy bow-lips, my witch,

but a warrior spellstress draped in furs—

you’ll whisk over thatch roofs in silver spurs

on a dun horse you goad with a whip.

Here you have swords with runes on the hilt,

to pierce them to pieces and mash them to batter,

then watch them erode into silt.

Hum-ha, my dear dolly—here none of it matters,

so fall into fancy and find what you’re after;

little imp, sink into your quilt.

(2014)