by Katarina Boudreaux
There is only me,
she says to herself,
and since she had turned
the third lock hard and fast
she knew the house would settle
around her, warm the delicate places
in her bones just as soon as she could
cut the carrots for dinner, make sure the windows
were secure, strong so her feet could uncurl from the
glass of slippers too tight and her bottle blonde become
the gray that it really was, and she sang a lullaby in a low, rich
alto as she walked to get the scissors for the carrots, as she’d thrown
away all her knives for fear of cutting herself some night late when and if
the walls talked her into remembering her real name and her actual expiration date.
Katarina Boudreaux is a writer, musician, composer, tango dancer, and teacher—a shaper ofword, sound, and mind. She recently returned to New Orleans after residing in Texas, Connecticut, and New York. She has been published in The Bacon Review, PANK, SNReview, Blueline, New Jersey Underground, and Calliope. New work is forthcoming in Corvus and YAY!LA.