She wrote love letters to the monsters under the bed
Made of papier-mâché barricades
And arranging bear bones into swords.
She was alive alive alive and they were dead.
Some inside the trinket box in the shape of an elephant
And the rest in the waste basket case, alone
She was always alone, picking roses from next door
And pressing them between pages of hardback books
Snapping the stalk in half and watching the sap ooze
Onto the words and smudging them, watching the ink run.