Show and Tell
Some untampered-with, tousled
pre-9/11 version of herself
whose internet still dialed
sat criss-cross-applesauce on the oriental rug
playing not with Barbies but with matches.
Potentially an act of arson small enough for the dollhouse,
but it stayed safely stashed in the upstairs attic
shrouded in a black plastic bag.
The useless wisps of smoke
the coveted hourglass
shape that’s meaningless when
When Mom(my) and Dad(dy) got home,
the slacker babysitter would have no explanation
for the ashy smudges, shoulders shrugging off the post-snack activity
like graham cracker crumbs.
No blood (to be absorbed like a secret),
no foul (odor to be Secret-masked).
For the meantime, all was left unadulterated.