𝒫𝒪𝒩𝒴 𝒢𝐼𝑅𝐿
Madlen Stafford
I dreamed last night that millions of shooting stars began falling to Earth right before us. Our eyes so wide, and hands so cold. There was so much swirling and burning. When the stars exploded Pony Girl’s face gleamed so orange, and even brighter than her strawberry hair. Embers of stardom twinkled upon us. One hundred little explosions chased us down Rabbit Hill, through my driveway, up the stairs, and behind the door of my childhood bedroom. The door with the peeling blue paint, faint inscriptions, and a hole punched through it. The explosions tucked us into bed at night.
Traveling to Earth ignites a flame,
nurses it. I will thrill myself on the joys of flailing.
***
I will text back. I will go. I will stay. I will walk alone through a snowy day…my hands through my blouse and on my chest. I will be a contortionist. My dress is black, and taller than I. I will stay. I will think about “Naked” by Mike Leigh all day without watching it. I will remember that I like to have sex like that. I will bend. I will defend stupid opinions, impress you. I will not be like her. I will pity myself, lay on the floor. I will imagine God was not watching us when I scratched the years off of her ID and replaced them with mine. I will twirl on thin ice. I will be an ugly apartment, broken floor. I will flood. I will be whatever names I am called today. I will go where I am sought; Be that near or far. I will let the glow of your mother’s kitchen cabinet lights in rural suburbia guide me through your night…not mine. I will dream of jumping on mattresses, her tattered rouge tights. I will overfill myself with tears. I will be navy blue, fading black.
***
Loon birds varying in size invite their evening by tracing wake trails through the pond akin to those of my father’s Jon boat. I miss my friend. I miss her so much. Pony Girl. Her hair grew longer than mine in the year when my days stopped. She wears red lipstick to sleep every night and sometimes eyeliner on special occasions. Her favorite song was always “I Love How You Love Me.” My mother always told me if I do one thing it’s to tell the truth. Pony Girl tells me that she wants to be alive again, and I tell her that she is.
Our days are: Hardened feet, cold blue eyes, waiting in life for the restroom, waiting on the platform for a train, waiting alone at an empty station, nursing the bottle in bed…rooftops…a little sister’s treehouse, a scrunched ankle sock below the bed, dad’s old truck, grandma’s pup, the lake when we were floating-staring at the sky, a dismal southern room illuminated by the light of a violent video game, one ear to a closed door and the other one covered, yellow bathing suits, Pony Girl’s toothy smile, seven years old too many chocolate ice cream bars.
Madlen Stafford is an American poet and visual artist. She has had her work published in Charm School Magazine and performed at their first ever reading in Chinatown. Her work was ranked in Scaffold Literary Magazine's "The Scaffold Top 50 Micro Writings of 2024”. She is five feet and six inches tall and does not know her blood type. She believes that God exists where the horizon meets the sky.