they'll call you goldilocks &
you'll eat cold porridge

& they'll call
you goldilocks when
you cry your
eyes red &  
climb up
the carpet staircase
to the forest--
your hair is neither
gold nor silver but
a dull-straw blonde
from bleaching
it one too many times--
your feel like 
kindling-- like
another bundle
of sticks & you'll
assume heaven is 
in one of 
those boxes
in the attic-- the
ones we never
bothered to unpack
even though we've lived
on noble street
for decades now--
grip the banister
& say a pray sent
from your blue DS--
from PictoChat--
a plea
scrawled in electronic  
ink-- are
there any saints
for you to
send messages to?
do they write back?
you can flip
your screen around
& use it as
a flashlight
while you search
for the light switch
all four
up the attic stairs 
to the forest
with the little cottage--
smoke pouring
from chimney-- 
you're hungry--
you're hungry
like all girls
with hair
made of kindling 
with game-boy-lit
faces with
11:11 wishes 
sticky-note written
on the bed room
walls-- 
does your god
feed you?
you're hungry 
for porridge &
saints & reaching
into card board
boxes to see if your
mother packed away
heaven up there--
in tissue paper or
maybe in the crate
with all the 
porcelain dolls 
still in their
wilting boxes--
you find a house
in the woods as
the story goes--
as the story always has
gone-- 
your body
walks in 
the front door
without you-- 
this time
you eat the cold
porridge because
you want to feel sorry
for yourself 
& you know 
the mama bear won't
mind-- she's used
to sharing--
you can't eat it
all even though
you're still hungry--
hungry
like the bare-naked
plowed
fields that bristle
like your own
haphazardly shaved
thighs-- 
corn husk & stalk--
you're not
sure what you're hungry
for 
so your skin
looks for a resting
place & sits
in the smallest
chair because
you've heard the
story before &
you know you
have to break
it to pieces--
up the creaky stairs
to the bed room
you lay on the hardest
bed & tuck
your knees into
your chest--
ribs press on
wood press on the
thumb print of
your skeleton--
what use is heaven
in the bottom
of a card board box
& there the forest
grew thick & 
hungry--
& you wait for
the bears to
come-- to come
eat you up--
to come bite
your straw hair--
dry & brittle--
to find heaven we
will have to give
into the teeth & to
the open windows
& to the cold porridge
on the kitchen counter--
share with your mother--
she is only trying to
help--
the bears aren't
coming-- this is your
own attic & 
you light your DS screen--
your own bed is hard
& beneath you
the rocking
chair shattered--
shards still stuck
in your spine-- oh
they will call you goldilocks
& you will knock
over a box of forest--
heaven was not
found in
a day