Melissa

Small and flaxen,
she drifted with vagabonds
across the borders, scarred.
Unsure.

In her lap sat
books of maps.
Barrage of words on pages
worn, ragged, torn.

From small to smaller,
numbers out of order,
letters skewed.
No marker of where
she was born.

Shattered chapters,
the cover a large factor
in how she learned
to smile on cue.
Passerby’s never saw
beyond the fence.
Panic and static in the attic,
rats at war.

Turmoil exploding
behind enemy lines.
Broken bottles of wine
on the scoured floors.

Buried in her nest,
books in the treasure chest,
the wind shifted to the West.
She couldn’t keep up the pace
and got lost in time and space.

Her life story reads
one short paragraph
in this epitaph:

“She was small and flaxen,
lips curved in a bow,
cover never blown.
Here lies Melissa,
lost on a map,
origins unknown.”