Guinevere Finally Leaves

she gouged out a dove-
shaped hole with a scepter,
and realized then
she was up near the sky:

an outlook
over what the walls were not,
even though they pretended
to be protective, like a shell.

but they had lost any feel
of guardianship. 
or gestation. 
there had been, once,
some windows

and an un-
locked front door.
jack-o’-lanterns,
christmas lights,
turkey feasts.

someone, maybe her,
never wanted
the genie of those times
to escape.

even so,

the best of the wishes
had floated off.
their magic just
couldn’t be sealed away.

gone now,
somewhere warm,
beyond this tomb.







Chris Crittenden writes from a struggling town, fifty miles from the nearest traffic light, though he winters in Los Angeles.  He blogs as Owl Who Laughs and is pretty well published.  Some recent acceptances are from:  Bitterzoet, Literary Orphans, Negative Capability and East Coast Literary Review.