Amber

Amber, I remember

when you were still tree sap.

We thought that a woman had a baby

when the daddy kissed her belly

and we tried to ignore

the death-twitches, crystal

Your mother gave

when you two were too long poor

for a fix.

Now, you trap boys like flies

and you are hardening,

Growing into your name.

A Belated Halloween Post

When I was one year old, I was a ladybug, too plump to do any flying. Next came Elmo, then Snow White, then Roo. My cousin was Kanga and my mother was Tigger. When I was five, I had my first year of dressing up as Belle from The Beauty and the Beast, my favorite Disney princess. I was a princess again at six, Cinderella, and a sleeping beauty when I was seven. My mother made my Aurora costume herself, complete with a tiara heavy with rhinestones. Next came Princess Leia, my long hair braided and looped on each side of my head. I was a generic "autumn princess" the next year - the result of an overdose of Disney, but still yearning for a ballgown. When I was eleven I had a pumpkin costume I could tuck my head into and hide inside, and when I was twelve I was a mercury spill with silver hair.  I was an eighth-grade Indian, the same as every other girl in my class. Fifteen was a sugar-skull bride, wedding gown and all. This year I was a fox; roadkill, limping along on crutches.

Potion of Aging
The shine from the wings of a dragonfly
Half of the wrinkliest prune in the bag
A lock of hair that has gone out of style
Groans from random joint pain, distilled
Powdered aspirin, for taste
Stew in a mixture of one part filtered water and two parts liquid nostalgia; mix counterclockwise for 20-30 minutes, or until beige. Each eight-ounce dose ages approximately ten years. Use with discretion. May produce wrinkles, gray hairs, and pains, with none of the advantages of wisdom.

I was putting on my Halloween costume when I heard something moving in my closet. It was a soft scrape, a whisper, the kind of sound you question hearing. I stood in the middle of the floor, staring at the slats in the door, glimpsing soft fabric. I can only think of Biology, and Mr. Moore telling us how nearly every case of rabies in America is transmitted by bats, with their thin, skeletal bodies and leathery wings. He told us about a little girl who was scratched by a bat when it entered her room, an imperceptible scrape that wasn't identified until it was too late. By the time the symptoms of rabies show, you're done for. I could look inside the closet, satiate my curiosity, find the source of sound. Or I could just pretend I never heard it, pretend it never existed; a trick of the nerves. I could crawl into my bed, tuck my legs and arms and head all under layers of blankets, a barrier, and stay there.