Hope
 
And still I keep whoring after hope,
a child clutching fistfuls of jagged shards of glass
that glitter like gemstones in the grass.
 
And still I keep whoring after hope,
trying to pick that lovely orange flower
that blossoms in the grate.
 
And well-meaning friends
keep trying to buy me a budgie,
when I wanted a peacock.
 
My fairy godmother,
if she shows up at all,
comes bearing orthopaedic sandals,
not glass slippers.
 
Yet still I keep whoring after hope,
a child clutching fistfuls of jagged shards of glass,
that glitter like gemstones in the grass.

Melanie Branton