I wished for a girl with buttermilk braids,
A squiggle of sunshine and mother’s pearl cream.
She was nesting in my secret window-box,
Nursing a rag doll of sunset silk.
I dreamed I fed her cornspun moonshine;
Her teeth were ice cube straight when she laughed.
I planned for a girl with buttermilk braids,
A tangle of stunning galaxy hearts and plain earthen souls.
She was gathered in my pencil-box,
Growing eyes like pools of solid lithium.
I aspired to clothe her in the lily-scented tides;
Her skin was carbon-clear as she laughed.
I set a snare for a girl with buttermilk braids,
A net of entrusted encounters and bejeweled bewitchments.
She was stretched inside my lighted cupboards,
Seeping gossamer gowns colored like twilight lilypads.
I begged her to still her frantic snow-bone struggles;
Her tears were cold oxygen cobalt when she died.
I remembered a girl with buttermilk braids,
The red phosphorus burn on the oak-and-cherry floor where she fell.
I enclosed her in a burnt-sparrow-feather coffin,
Sprinkling excess pine needles to float among the lilies.
I glimpsed that her hair had darkened in death, a shade;
Her blood-drops were dead rubies when I uncoiled the elderberry syrup formation.