Imaginary Friends:

Every night when the moon rose, he was there,

perching on the bed as she settled in to sleep,

satin on her dress and flowers in her hair.

Mommy never saw him, too busy drinking the bottles bare,

Father had a household to keep.

Through the smashed plates, the whiskey-fuelled fits, he was there.

He spoke in riddles, in songs obscure

about the Princess Anastasia, Blitzkrieg, troubadours killed like sheep,

while he sew satin onto her dress and braided flowers in her hair.

When he was around, no one could touch her, no one would dare,

though Uncle Ted still tries again while she’s asleep.

When the satin rips and the flowers fall, she knows he’s there. 

Sewing shears and choler pierce the lazy summer air,

And Uncle and them too, into the dying flowerbeds in one fell sweep,

Satan in her eyes and cut flowers everywhere.

The sirens shrill and he says run, but he’s smiling at her skin fair

the prettiest madness, the porcelain that waltzes with silver as red creeps.

The morning after, basking chevalier amidst the stones, he is there

singing her to sleep, with satin on her eyes and flowers everywhere.