“Beasts only lurk

in the dark woods beyond locked doors,”

so went the family tale.

When they grew into

little girls, the sisters came to know, some family tales

are just wishful dreams.

They stepped innocent

to the front, turning into tethered bait for the beast

lurking indoors.

Poisoned fangs

sinking deep, punctured muscle and wounded souls.

Under the genial surface

the sisters to this day

gasp, holding poison in tortured silence,

drawing agonized breaths

under roaring pain.

The skulking beast prances free, spilling poison

over silenced alarms.

One little girl

took her turn as her sisters did, joining ranks

with the rolling waves,

common pawns ordered

to the death march by blinded monarchs suppressing mutiny

until she stepped

out of the ranks

into the dark woods where the tigress beckoned

inviting her to tea.

“I know that thing,”

she said after the girl took her seat. “What thing,” said the girl

alert to the tigress’ disapproval.

“That story you tell yourself,”

the tigress twitched her whiskers, pouring tea into earthen cups,

“of bygones and dirty laundry.

There are no bygones

when you’re dealing with the beast. There’s no laundry dirty of yours.

It’s knotted poison

you nurse in tight embrace.

Notionally speaking, it’s time you dropped that where it belongs

in the beast’s bloody hamper.

Your silence is poisoned bargain

you never made. Come now, girl, give me a good growl, it’s the start of a

roar when the beast is near.”