Again, not good enough, but definitely an insight into my soul.
My mom thinks Harry Potter’s probably wickedness,
but this is progress. When I was five, Rapunzel
got a haircut, became
seller of purple, sponsor of apostles. Every
frog and owl was tossed away. Demons.
No He-Man, as God alone
was Master of the Universe.
Only Aslan had the kind of power
we could celebrate, wild as Jesus, and each summer
we read his endorsed enchantment together
in my parents’ king-sized bed.
Now when my aunt hears Bible babbling
from my brother’s lips, from mine,
she chides, expounds the magic of change,
warns us not to be so sure of anything
in our twenties. She remembers when pants and
bacon came from the Devil, when the TV
hid shame-faced in the closet, when exorcism
was en vogue. She fears we might be under the spell
that made her sister a troll, hoarding the jewels of
revelation with Mine! Mine! Mine!
She must not see the wands
behind our backs. We’ve turned that troll
into a jolly Mother Goose, and she’ll be a princess
yet, well-versed like us in the magic of change,
of granite turned to soft, pink flesh.