goldilocks

i saw goldilocks through

a telescope. a hundred power.

and she looked back

with just her naked hazel eyes

i thought she was younger

but now it seems she's not.

she had a child, who left.

said goodbye in a note

penciled on the bottom

of next week's shopping list.

i put another quarter

in the telescope

and search again. there.

she sits on a bench

at the bus stop, loose-leggedly

leaned back against the back

and turns in my direction

once more, as if she sees

my hand twisting the dial

a mile away. she does.

holds up her left hand

where a dull pink scar

takes the place of gold.

she folds down the pinkie,

the index, and the ring-scared

one and stabs the last one

up and down. smiles sweetly

and spits with gusto into the street.

is that for me?

i point at myself,

as if she can see me

without a telescope of her own.

again she smiles and nods.

i don't understand it.

i haven't eaten her porridge

or taken her bed, never even

seen her before climbing

up this spire. it must be

some kind of invisible enemy

the man who put that child in her

or a cruel mother. not like her.

she loved her son.

in spite of all the spite he'd flung

before he left. just like his father.