Coco

My soul

is the sea-skimming air

that whistles through young children’s shells,

mimicking siren calls

It is

the hurricane gusts

Hair like lightning

Sprung from her head,

In her garden she chased

Spirits of the dead.

"The keeper of the ghosts!"

The townsfolk would cry,

And from foggy windows,

I existed as a precocious young girl who lived only in the context of her own mind. 

I pranced over to the neighbor’s yard to gather rose petals for the fairies’ dresses,