Rundetårn 2

All the poems left to linger
on the shelf of my ancient closet.
Tucked beneath boxes of courage
are the coiled ribbons of misery, the pocketbooks of desire, and a wardrobe
jammed to the edge
with the gowns of women I’ll never be.
Crinolen, lace, tulle; a blue garter for luck.

I stand, looking forward. Look behind.

Is this the end of the fairy tale or my first shaky, barefooted steps home?