the fairies mourn 

By Amber Watkin

​

beneath the layer of dry dust, in the depths of the ground 

soil cool to the touch in the heights of summer heat 

reddening skin and salty sweat sliding down her brow 

the little girl submerges her hands below and searches 

 

mud caked under fingernails, palms gone dark with dirt 

she looks for beautiful things / strange things / lost things 

hiding from the sun and digging endlessly into the earth 

an architect drawing up blueprints, a follower steadfast in her faith 

 

fairy houses have to be small  

they are made from: twigs, rocks, acorns, leaves, grass, weeds, cicada shells 

and sweet smelling flowers / pretty suicide flowers / ophelia’s flowers 

when she has completed her collection, she begins to construct 

 

small, nimble fingers and centuries contained in a chest 

she builds a home in the hollow between tree roots 

beside the hole she has dug like two lovers laying together 

an act of devotion / an ardent prayer / a place of worship 

 

hiding from the sun and hiding from the world 

endlessly into the earth, the little girl is digging a grave 

she plucks things from the ground for her gods as she goes 

but still she goes, the little girl is digging her own grave. 

 

heartbeat aching in her head, the little girl will grow and lose religion 

red skin gone ghostly white and summer sun collapsing below the horizon, 

the flowers will smell twice as sweet when they lure her to the ground 

ophelia in the water, the little girl will lay her head down and rest. 

 

when they find her, she will be covered in flowers and acorns; 

the fairies return the favor, the gods thank their loyal servant. 

they wipe away sweat and tears, replace them with morning dew; 

in heights of summer heat in the hollows between tree roots, the fairies will mourn. 

​

​

my mother's hands

​

​

​

 

 

  

​

​