Although I love poetic language — the language of the abstract, the unspoken, of simile and metaphor — I don’t often try my hand at poetry. But one day as I entered a wooded glade, the poetic muse struck. I sat on a bench, took out my pencil and paper, and let that rare muse wander as it pleased. The result was a poem that speaks to my past, the idyllic years spent in England when I was four and five years old. So, for better or worse, here it is:

PRINCESS

by Michele Torrey

Flower boxes
bolstered the broken egos
of the cottage windows
spilling with pansies
geraniums
begonia
and lobelia
looking like a child undecided
upon which toy to carry
and so gathering them all.
The old gate
standing guard on the front path
complained and whined
when I perched and swung
adding to the cacophony
of barnyard cats who
through mutual consensus
agreed Mum’s dustbin slop
was the best around.

“Listen for kittens”
my brother whispered
co-conspirator in saving
the abandoned felines.
Breathless
we stood in the grassy field
grain licking our thighs
tuning the drums in our delicate ears
to beat to the mewings of kittens.
Upon discovery of such warm
squirming creatures
we gingerly scooped them up
and ran to find Mum
as she squeezed out hot
white linens
into the bowels of the kitchen sink.
Bubbles bobbed
before my eyes
creating rainbow worlds
of iridescent folk
destined to live furiously
before the big bang.

“Mummy – look! Kittens!”
And into a big box
behind the kitchen stove they would go
nestled into the sour smell
of a never-washed horse blanket.

“It’s the warmest place we have”
Her big hands
reddened
parched
caressed the furry heads.
“Run along now, there’s work to be done”
She brushed us into the barnyard
as though sweeping off the scrubbed
splintered planks.

Heads wrapped in shirts
neck holes tightened
around our foreheads
headdresses in place
we metamorphosed
into Indians.
I,
The Princess.
On the painted warpath we charged
raiding the chicken coop to kidnap rotten eggs
splashing their brains against brick walls
escaping with fingers pinching our noses
shadow of the ghastly scent chasing us
with its sulphur-yellow
tomahawk.