The pink lay dormant in a belly
It may as well have been for an eternity
For all it cared,
Aging without becoming was hardly a problem
If not a privilege per se
But when it did come out, months later
It became she
And she become her,
As did the black curls she just loved too see
In the gigantic oblong mirror
That hanged on her tall, snow-white wall.
Her mother gave her a peculiar name
And dyed her hair red…
The problem was,
She could not recognize her after that
So she began to search for her all over
Becoming tragically aware of prepositions,
Testing each,
Wondering which would turn out the winner:
Behind, beneath
Up
On, under
In, out?
Her money was on in
Although the in she knew
Was her bare misconception, e.g.:
In her room
In the phonebook
In the papers
In the limelights
In blood stains on some highway
Or another…
No wonder she never found her.
And all this time the little one
Was lying pliant on the dinning sofa
Right beside her,
All covered in fake hair
Dressing herself in a big pretty ribbon
So she could fly herself off
To some man’s birthday party.