You were you, I was the wishing well

With the little yellow bucket that’s sat on my lip since the 70s,

A hopeful sun against the gnome brown flowers.

You kept me next to you while you worked,

Stuffed me with pens that held promises in their inky veins.

I granted that wish about you having a little boy first, followed by a little girl.

And that one about your mother knowing your children before she forgot herself.

You saved me alongside newspapers, books, junk mail,

And I saw that little girl drowning, drowning in the maelstrom.

There was a wish you didn’t know needed wishing

When the little girl wished to open her veins to paint herself in red ink,

And I had to swallow my bucket to draw out a wriggling, breathless reason to live.

She never knew. Neither did you.

And now you’re gone.

You will never know her children.

And she—the hoarder’s daughter—she’s giving me away.

And her children won’t know me either.