Daffodil Fairy, etc.
By
Debdutta Pal
Daffodil Fairy
Did it really happen?
they check, more to themselves
I don’t have a tongue
that wags like ribbon
hourly, decaying without bread.
More chocolate eggs?
they celebrate, the season’s shift
like we played a part
were really good, thus rewarded
spring’s liquid youth.
Was it ever all blue?
they ask the green, nipping buds
for dry window sills
forgetting provisional reminders
toes chilling in the darkest shade.
Is she digging earth?
deep, all night long, fragile hands
counting carcasses
that lied, in the treasured process
of common beauty.
Get Even
I thought revenge was
showing the way, leafy roads
so you finally understand
and say the words, just three
you were right
I thought revenge was
becoming larger than you
biting the gold
but it was still old games
and I lost large
pieces of myself, so many
in the process of whittling.
I thought revenge was
living well
but life and I, we’ve never
really gotten along
circling each other
with mildew and distrust
I kind of the keep playing
for the other team.
I think revenge is leaving
you, to your own designs
a suffocating web
a black spider with teeth
which chews you down
slow, with vacant seats
and just like that
we get even.
Ghoulish Gaze
Lost in thought, I miss the creak
a hand stretches, long, very long
condemning my wings
from the warmth of the machine
that cools their rare air.
I wait for two footsteps, thudding
the monster withdraws, certainly
its lone, with no one to share
space it made with bloodied saws.
The children set grains and chunks
so they told them stories
of distance and omens, how looking
into our eyes would harm
muscle beyond tiny bouncing hearts.
My screams echo between buildings
the monster calls it heartbreak
from terrifying futures torn with ink
like we’re the things burdened
with devouring more than we desire.
I see branches twist and weigh
in the quiet stretching between wolf
hours, letting me down, leaving sap
gluing the irregular, screens greyish
depositing feathers for dreams.
The monster claims we would
sport its bones, if let in, so we can be
classified as other, not of their world
everything but them, isn’t real, at all
only their gaze in high mirrors
that manifest graceful humans.
Debdutta Pal has one foot in reality and another in fantasy. Comfortably nicheless, she’s feral for inspiration, which she finds in Netflix shows, pop music, and dead poets. She’s been published in Five Minutes, Lunae Literature & Review, Phil Lit Journal, Everscribe Magazine, and more. Her stories are moored on Medium and Substack.
By
Debdutta Pal
Daffodil Fairy
Did it really happen?
they check, more to themselves
I don’t have a tongue
that wags like ribbon
hourly, decaying without bread.
More chocolate eggs?
they celebrate, the season’s shift
like we played a part
were really good, thus rewarded
spring’s liquid youth.
Was it ever all blue?
they ask the green, nipping buds
for dry window sills
forgetting provisional reminders
toes chilling in the darkest shade.
Is she digging earth?
deep, all night long, fragile hands
counting carcasses
that lied, in the treasured process
of common beauty.
Get Even
I thought revenge was
showing the way, leafy roads
so you finally understand
and say the words, just three
you were right
I thought revenge was
becoming larger than you
biting the gold
but it was still old games
and I lost large
pieces of myself, so many
in the process of whittling.
I thought revenge was
living well
but life and I, we’ve never
really gotten along
circling each other
with mildew and distrust
I kind of the keep playing
for the other team.
I think revenge is leaving
you, to your own designs
a suffocating web
a black spider with teeth
which chews you down
slow, with vacant seats
and just like that
we get even.
Ghoulish Gaze
Lost in thought, I miss the creak
a hand stretches, long, very long
condemning my wings
from the warmth of the machine
that cools their rare air.
I wait for two footsteps, thudding
the monster withdraws, certainly
its lone, with no one to share
space it made with bloodied saws.
The children set grains and chunks
so they told them stories
of distance and omens, how looking
into our eyes would harm
muscle beyond tiny bouncing hearts.
My screams echo between buildings
the monster calls it heartbreak
from terrifying futures torn with ink
like we’re the things burdened
with devouring more than we desire.
I see branches twist and weigh
in the quiet stretching between wolf
hours, letting me down, leaving sap
gluing the irregular, screens greyish
depositing feathers for dreams.
The monster claims we would
sport its bones, if let in, so we can be
classified as other, not of their world
everything but them, isn’t real, at all
only their gaze in high mirrors
that manifest graceful humans.
Debdutta Pal has one foot in reality and another in fantasy. Comfortably nicheless, she’s feral for inspiration, which she finds in Netflix shows, pop music, and dead poets. She’s been published in Five Minutes, Lunae Literature & Review, Phil Lit Journal, Everscribe Magazine, and more. Her stories are moored on Medium and Substack.
