I have paired it with the song “She’s Not There” by the Zombies.
Not a Fairy Tale
a flimsy rainbow arced over the town
she wasn’t anywhere near the end of it
she had a real name
but he didn’t know it
he couldn’t picture her in a fairy tale
hippie white girl with crazy green eyes
a pocketful of peyote
untamed and intangible.
Bones, she whispered.
Bones no one is ever going to find.
My brother’s twenty-one.
He always will be.
He liked the skirt
denim, reconfigured from a pair of bell-bottoms
the way she had the tail of her
red-and-black-checked flannel shirt tied in front,
the bandanna around her wrist.
“Hey, Ginger, where are your dancing shoes?”
She pushed off with one foot
and spun on the ball of the other,
lifted her head
and flung her body upright in motion.
“Why, Mr. Astaire, you’re late.”
“Late? Late for what? How late am I?”
“I had a dream you were coming.
But that was months ago.
You. are. late.”
He couldn’t tell if she was serious.
“What were we doing when I got here?”
“I didn’t get that far. I woke up.”
“What’s the scar?”
“I fell.” She didn’t say anything more.
“Did it hurt?”
“Don’t remember much. I was on the roof.”
“What were you doing on the roof?”
“Throwing rocks at my brother. I deserved to fall.”
“No one deserves that.”
She let him kiss her.
She smelled of rain and dog and hay.
He felt as if some peculiar magic
had turned him into an overgrown stuffed animal.
He wasn’t even sure why he had come,
the pull too great to resist.
This one seemed breakable;
a deer who knew you weren’t going to shoot it
let you get so close
then bolt to the edge of the clearing,
the forest impenetrable behind her.
She knew he couldn’t follow.