Bedroom is merely to peer into but not enter. It is a small bedroom.
It is a girl bedroom filled with mesh nets of stuffed animals hanging
down by the canopy bed post. A white nightstand is filled
with fairytale books and a diary written in barely practiced cursive.
She has been asleep a long time. We knew she was tired—her body fluctuating
between girl and woman, and yesterday when the neighborhood boy asked
to pet her hairy legs—she let him. She knew him since she was four;
he taught her the alphabet and how to read nursery rhymes.
But now after this incident, our Sleeping Beauty refuses to rise
even on Sunday morning when Mom makes her bacon and pancakes.
She says she’s so tired, so sleepy; she wants her tongue to become
a vine—to twist and curl and slip out the window.
Then her body can grow into the bed, become part of the covers,
it will seep into the floorboards, stain the wood,
it will drip into the basement and become something that is scary,
it will have claws and a mouth that is mean and teeth that tear before they taste.
Heather Frankland holds an M.F.A. and a M.P.H. from New Mexico State University. She lives in Tacoma, WA where she teaches at Pierce College. She has been published in Lingerpost, the New Purlieu Review, ROAR, and Sin Fronteras Press. Heather has a deep rooted passion for literature, advocacy, culture, feminism, and poems of place as well as displacement.