When I Am Dorothy Gale
The curtain comes crashing down
and there I am, ruby-footed and murderous,
doing it all for the bloated shadow
of a little man. How foolish I have been
again and again, poppy-cocked
and clumsy, letting the boom of a voice, the cast
of a giant, tease me into storming
the castle to take what I never lacked. What is
more incarnadine: the glitter of these
shoes or the myth of blood now on my hands.
I look at the man and he looks back,
the fury of being caught pinking his cheeks.
I am not the heroine, and I know that
too late. He has no power to give me, after all,
the fading of his theatrics, and if he did,
I understand he’d keep it. We all fell for green,
called it real. There’s no place like money.
There’s no seduction like a beast of sewn-up skins,
a cotton ball on fire, a thrown voice
that tells us what we want to hear. Which of us
escapes? He told the lie; I did the killing.