I believed

in elves and fairies, once.

My chubby feet

in dirty-white double-buckle Mary Anns

ran for days

searching them out.

I know of only three

I actually saw.

One on a blackberry vine

(he flew off on a butterfly

before I could catch him)

another caught in the sticky fig tree

(a bird ate him).

The last I loved.

He was charming.

A cocky clown

a true Leprechaun

with his green Peter Pan hat

always askew

like his grin.

He turned up

where I least expected him

on my pillow when the lights were out

(he’d tickle my ear)

in my pocket where I carried my jacks

(he’d hold back the ball).

He untied my ribbons

hid my skate key

taught me how

to sip dew from a leaf

‘to squeeze watermelon seeds

to sail a walnut-shell boat

to smile at the rain

to stare up through trees and see wonders.

He showed me love

and I killed him.

He kept hanging around

even after my first patent leather pumps

and silk hose.

I was so afraid

someone would laugh

and call me childish

or worse

“different.”

He frequently

‘recklessly

perched near me

his eyes knowing me too well

loving me anyway.

That last day

he jumped into my lap

on the back

of a yellow and black

grasshopper

a magnificent steed

outfitted with shimmering

spiderweb reins

and intricately woven

corn-silk saddle.

I lifted him,

mount and all,

to receive his kiss.

Someone saw

screamed

I stood

startled

threw him to the ground

crushing him beneath

my Andrew Geller toe

wiping the prickle off my hands

an acceptable mouè on mouth

and walked away

glancing back oly once

at the mangled heap

brittle laughter hiding

the shriek of grief

in my insides.

The permissible path

I had to follow

has long disintegrated

into common crushed shell

cutting into the bareness

of my callused feet.

I wish

my Leprechaun

sat upon

the curved handle

of my cane.