changeling

mother, i think there is something
wrong with me.

when i look at people,
i see dark figures in shadow-boxes.
they make strange gestures
and i cannot meet their eyes.

i think if i opened up my flesh
and really dug deep,
i’d find myself stuffed full of cotton.
then i would notice my button eyes,
jagged seams holding me together —
mother, did the fae make me?
did they cackle while they sewed
my rag doll husk?
are you sure i belong to you?

then what is this dirt on my toes,
as if i was brought up
from some earthen bowel
and deposited nameless on your lawn?

why can i not fathom
the ways of humans?
why better the ways of snails, of voles?

i am sorry.
i’ve no idea what happened
to your real child.

i brought you a fistful of pebbles in earnest —
may they be a foothold for your daughter
to step back into this world
and relieve me.

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© 2023 nessa jasper