Going Back

by Leah Bobet

When you go back
It will be naked
Or chained, bones snapped
Or just undone
The garden-variety sort of undone:
The kind that grows in tomato patches
Pulled up mistaken in the canning weeks.

(There is a corpse-detail
on the door in the hedge
bankers impaled on the thorns every night
are cleared by the brownies come morning

When you go back
You will be old.
You never thought you might grow old
Like into a shirt, or like a weed
A debt-sheet, a child, a silence strained
They do not like things that are old:
Your blind, dark eyes won't find the door.
(Nobody makes you dance to death
nobody makes you cry all night
meatloaf is just as good for you
as the feast-food under the hill

Push the coats aside;
Dive down the hidey-hole
Whispering harsh and deathwish-soft
I do, I do --
--I do believe in faeries--

Leah Bobet lives in Toronto, where she works in Canada's oldest science fiction bookstore and has just completed a degree in linguistics. Her fiction has appeared recently in Strange Horizons, The Mammoth Book of Extreme Fantasy, and On Spec, and her poetry has been nominated for the Rhysling and Pushcart Prizes. She is working on a novel about a girl with bee wings and a boy who grew up underground. Her favourite fruit at this writing is sweet yellow mangoes, but by publication it will be late apples.

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