The latest in the series of P. poems.

Things not meant to be:

The saddest sound

is made

when wooden lips collide

across the string divide.

Stomboli laughed

at foolish puppets

mimicking the grandest acts

of life.

Mangiafuoco was more kind;

set me free

with coins and a sad shake of his head

when he heard the tale

of two puppets kissing -

wooden lips bump

to the sound

of earth hitting a coffin lid.

When my wood turned to skin

I sought her out. 

She had been devoured by the fire;

there was nothing left

but memory: the texture

of wood on my lips –

the sound of a wooden club

as it connects to the small head

of a fur seal pup.