Little Matrons

slumped in the crook of a nook, bereft

of lullabies and apple pie, playing duck duck

goose with my mind to find the smallest child

nested inside another then another until I

ring around the rosie back to myself. This

recess is cold. It’s like everyone vamoosed

to get to America first. Hello, what if we didn’t

want to go? All that’s left is an echo and a

banshee I hardly know. Some people say

hypnosis or past life regression therapy may

help, but I locked this chamber for a reason.

Ate the key. What is the shape of memory

that needs to be forgotten? Yet a voice keeps

calling: Let me out, let me out, let me out, let me