Dear Unlucky Person

Rebecca Lehmann

I was scrambled down, left alone,
an archer of bliss. I was
a fine-threaded swan,
a lifetime of doll heads,
sorted and cold in an arm chair.
I hung the air with each breath.
I measured my untaxed skin
with a handful of feathers.
Then garishly the lightning
dressed the snow blue.
Nobody could say it wasn’t slip-strong.
No blush would develop red and brash,
flung carefree about. That’s how
the barometer is the river is the cockroach
is the wad of hair and neon thread.
So surrender, in notions,
in novice, in northing.
There are none to rule, and the fur hat
made you look kingly.
The sugar candies gather on the edge
of the coffee table, on the edge
of the pop-up book that reads: 
Dear Unlucky Person,
You shall fear to tread day and day.
That’s the pass.